Carelessly Datedby Ray Succre
Dust spans this tape appending my hand-
this mollycoddled tape in a vast, no longer
There is no player of tapes in my home,
yet this old tape is my first, labeled with a
date that’s near my eleventh birthday,
a mixture from radio, a tape I heard until
its songs warped and the voices muffled
into meld and hiss.
Now I prepare for middle man row
and young men wager the young, violet air
in place of my own, its case in my chest exhaling,
and now I prepare for the paring knife years
where all previous lead.
Dust sports this tape dropped off my hand-
this futile tape flashed back into its nest
of things in a box, then box into a bag
for this Tuesday’s pick-up curbside trash.