Neither freshly downloaded
Nor recently bought.
Old music wafts
Out of the digital sarcophagus
And gently floods
The familiar channels
Of my auditory cortex.

It neither flows on
The unyielding slopes of time
Nor from past to the future.
But on the plains of untime.
Washing against the shores
From myriad mouths
Long after the flood seizes.

A little shriller on the ears
A little baser on the heart
Of old blazers and mothballs
Grainy and sepia

A chunk of frozen time.