Dust.

A broken buzzing.
Big B radio, overlay,
scratch and static, crackling voices
on the edge of the universe.

Radio waves
suck hard and blow soft.
Feedback deafens a questing ear
seeking sense in insanity.
I twist the dial
trying to find you.

Scanning cosmic dust,
nebula spilling from my coffee cup.
Morning colours defused,
stirring up espresso interference.
Building blocks, blood and bone,
words made flesh,

Switch selected frequencies.
Morse code taps, blip on blip
from deep Aurora space.
Behind the Australis and the Borealis,
John Wayne and Marilyn smile,
flickering between white on black
and technicolour,

Nixon and Kennedy bandy words,
the king croons, down on the Bayou.
And Alpha Centauri drifts by
Twenty five trillion miles from Gracelands.
In the other world, the dial is broken,
evening traffic passes, horns blare and tempers flare,

Echoes. The clip clop of horses and wagons
trundling on dirt roads kicking up clouds.
Moving in and out of focus,
a mirage in a wave capped desert
that rises and falls
in memory of oceans.

Nomads move through shifting sand storms,
eyes assaulted by prehistoric mollusc shells
ground to dust.

-Dave Kavanagh

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