– Oliver de la Paz –
These are your radio towers. With seeming purpose, seeming direction, each slice of air demarcates a zone.
If I were standing on X, I would hear you as clearly as those at Y. There is no silence, the wattage sees to it. From every vantage point, ecstatic tops—red warning lights call their blooms. There are no cadences or coincidences—your voice booms, far beyond innuendo.
On the wires, yellow birds flash. Little muscles. Little breaks in your voice slide into our ears, smoothing their way into a new abode. It sews an order. It sews a hum.