What happens when you take apart a radio? You get pieces of a radio and no music.
He found it half-buried in the sand. It looked like an old argument. It still glowed green when he plugged it in and for a moment all was well. But its static ate at talk like ocean surf eats sand yet unpleasant so many short staccato bursts from gulls claiming turf clamoring for that broken receiver revealed by undertow. His wife said it’s broken. To fix it he plants transistors in his brow furrows tongue between teeth tip out of mouth the chance of rain concentrate ear perks for the sound of unfurling first sprouts the year it takes the earth to exhale. His wife can tell his scent has changed replaced by the tang of hot wiring above his eyes a range of antennae move when he is not speaking he never speaks now nor goes to field or shore anymore his eyes centerscreen dots of an old TV a night arrives- he dies starven eyes blinded with tears his widow unscrews his head and throws it from the window to shatter among the thyme. Just enough peace for one last night in his arms. The next morning her garden is filled with radio towers, red lights wink at her from the clouds. Her foot upon a first strut- hand upon a stanchion- she does not climb but turns and stumbles over a hill to sit where they used to listen to the sea.