Behind the choir of dial tones, live cotton rounds of provolone,
busy lines of thin-sliced swiss camouflage all that we miss.

Our sensitive ears are layered with but a veil of cheese,
transparencies for elegy…

An old record player scratching its way to life,
sculpted lyrics, falling through a jagged tunnel or cracked drain pipe.

Don’t strain your ears to listen, there’s no reward or commission,
to decipher an ill-received language is to reapply a wet, peeling bandage.

Are ears a better fit on the deaf or on the blind?
When no one listens, can they charge the harshest fine?

How did we allow the intolerant ear canal
to lead such a negligent life, such a waxy cover on the butter knife.

If only we’d give it a turn
to widen our eyes.

– Jada Yee