by Jeff Newberry

Maybe Monk was right.
Nothing is straight-on, all
angles and obliques,
all grace notes. Implied roots.
The morning light has no edges
but somehow covers everything.
A bird on the phone line
sings and others pick up the chorus.
Unheard voices find willing ears
in the ether or on the wire.
The square modem. The boxed
router. Even an old TV’s rabbit ears.
Late fall grass shags the lawns
Pine straw grays in forgotten
piles. Still, it finds harmony.
Picks up the faded siding
of a cul-de-sac house catty-corner
from a sun-bleached shed
in an otherwise empty lot.
A plane’s jet white pen across
blue scores and divides
and everything holds together.
The chords may clash,
the notes coming in irregular
beats. They weave and weave,
surrounding each other.
From étude to symphony.
From rest to pause. Lay out.
Come back in loud, strong.
Straight, no chaser.
Even if you can’t hear
the tonic, it’s always there.

Jeff Newberry’s most recent book is How to Talk about the Dead (Redhawk Publications). His writing has appeared in a variety of print and online publications, including Palooka (forthcoming), Surussus, and Sugar House Review. His new book, a collection of experimental essays titled Frames: A Memoir, is forthcoming from Another New Calligraphy Press. Find him online at jeffnewberry.com or on Threads at @jeffnewberry.