You've heard about the order of the waves,
established many years ago by boys
and girls disguised as boys. Wholly artless,
they plied the crests barehanded.
You've heard about their hands, but have not touched
or been touched, else you too would be clean
and constant, governed by the distant sun
or its viceroy umbrellas. In their shade
you saw many people alive with sugar.
Every person is made of water; so
every person is, or could be, a radio,
a rudimentary song harvester
with no search-dial, bleating random tunes
or static. I trust you've heard of static,
that place where songs surge and overlap.
it grows more crowded every summer.
Songs have to go somewhere, after all.
They can't seek asylum in the future.
You've heard about the future, or even
leaned against it once, unawares,
mistaking it for a chain-link fence.