Lately, my music taste
is trying to tell me something
I already know.

The crow in my garden each morning
says the same—
perched on the black trash-can lid
of my heart.

Off-kilter trap and soft ballads fuse,
and I absorb sound
until my chest builds a cathedral
of gunmetal and barley:
a choir of barnacles, rusted bells.

I visit a close friend
in a distant city
and talk about connection. Again.

This desk fan spins too fast
for thought, for breath,
for anything but scattering—
a whir in my cat-scramble mind.

I picture myself a man
with ears stitched all over his body—
ears that never hear a thing.

A shelf.
A teapot.
A keyboard.
A blade of grass
in a stranger’s shoe.

I count the holes in my showerhead:
daily,
weekly,
yearly.

I leave a half-eaten orange on the counter,
segment the segments, then discard.

My skin—inked, crinkled—
sheds old sheet music.

And my music taste is still telling me something
I thought I knew,
but haven’t yet
let myself feel.

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David Hanlon is a poet based in Cardiff, Wales. His work appears in numerous magazines and journals, including Rust & Moth, Anthropocene, and trampset. His latest collection, Dawn’s Incision, was published by Icefloe Press. You can follow him on Twitter @davidhanlon13 and Instagram @hanlon6944.