Sometimes late at night
I play with my radio,
trying to tune in the dead.
A nine-band Panasonic,
ears on the world,
AM, FM and shortwave.
I believe this is how
those gone will reach me,
thin noise disguised in a song.
So I listen to language
I don’t understand, waiting
for words I know.
New moons are best, dials
are filled. I patiently twirl
up and down.
Old friends will find me,
maybe my mother;
I keep my radio on.