Like a Rolling Stone

A drum-tap, an explosion:

You pressed your ear against his voice,

how you pressed your head against your father’s chest,

and heard the beating heart. 

When you listened, holding the beat between your ears,

your mind, you felt no sound

so insistent, strange and fertile: the expansive glamour of keyboard,

the primordial organ – as through it all

Dylan’s voice curled like ivy upwards, cleaving and branching, twining, alive. 

Nothing mattered except the song,

rising to meet your own face, miles from nondescript – like sunlight

on the floor of my apartment today,

after three months of cold winter, or a blackbird

compelling itself into flight.

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