I trace the stacked

voices of shouters

how they immingle

fraternally

on first hearing

with the vaporous

nick of taxis

gold-rushing the avenue

as if they were

part of the same

equation

(or miscalculation)

yet ruminantly fugitive

one or the other

sound falls back

to tundra distances

creating

double-choice

(like the way air

can be seen

to palm through

a good photograph

despite being

locked into the essential

stillness)

the street nerved

with intended pitch

and the aheadedness

of sound being raked

into a kind of sonic theatre

after leaving the ear

(or appearing to leave)

where it encores

thread-frail

yet able enough

to jet the mind

for a second or more

undeserted

in the half-silence

as if nervously

retouched

to the shock of it