That I Saw the Light on Nonotuck Avenue

That every musical note is a flame, native in its own tongue. That between bread and ash there is fire. That the day swells and crests. That I found myself born into it with sirens and trucks going by out here in a poem. That there are other things that go into poems like the pigeon, cobalt, dirty windows, sun. That I have seen skin in marble, eye in stone. That the information I carry is mostly bacterial. That I am a host. That the ghost of the text is unknown. That I live near an Air Force base and the sound in the sky is death. That sound like old poetry can kill us. That there are small things in the poem: paper clips, gauze, tater tots, and knives. That there can also be emptiness fanning out into breakfast rolls, macadam, stars. That I am hungry.

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