when it stops in poetry

I dreamed of a record found up in the attic
when played it looked just like teevee static
which hasn’t existed since they killed analog
but something was calming in that random fog
grooves speckled with something that glowed
spun like fairy-floss into some perfect snow
when it stopped only that vinyl could know
I crafted a haunted house out of my head
trapping the spirits of my shackled dead
the ghosts the ones calling for a priest
wishing themselves from my nostalgia
released, if I should ever wake up

Last updated August 11, 2020