Friday, September 13, 2024

Announcer

For one writer, the radio
Playing on his kitchen counter,
Something like fifty years ago,

Was the voice of a true doubter
That didn’t fill but tore a hole
In quiet for future’s power

To invade, like a cold wind blows
Through any chinks it encounters.
Tomorrow! roared the radio,

Any lone pulse that still flounders
Will belong to someone who knows
Invention operates downward.

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