like a steel needle stuck
in the track of a record on
the old Victrola. But now it's like
cherry cola without the fizz. I've

broken into pieces these words
of his. The reds and the blues I've cut
like tile and let them fall in a pile
on top of my dresser drawer. I can pave

a path to Bangor with the yellows
and the black, and trace my way
back to the day. The grey cockatiel
flying around my head repeats,

repeats. His words bled/out my eyes,
nose and ears. And has not stopped
in all these years. A mosaic
of his face warped in time and space.