Radio is gift from our dead, no more playing
But visually in a room in a memory’s corners

Of he who has since gone out of the system
A radio made obsolete by retrievable music,

He whose ancestors had belonged to snows
But could not live in hills of hatred and fight.

O’Hara had De Kooning with an orange bed
And a radio to perform a week’s Prokiefieff.

Bukowsky’s radio got flung on roof playing
In the woman’s back against an orange sun.

Our radio plays from light to an arrowhead.
Radio is dead but is yet orange in our sunset.


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