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

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

they used to
the sea.

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