Behind the sounds you hear everyday

the escaping gas, the puff of flame

lurks a music, daughter of chance

composed of cars in swift passage

radios, children shouting in the dark

an alarm, a clatter or a rumble

& the chants of the Vietnamese

on another floor, another continent.

You discover a ripple in the surface

behind the face of what you notice

that lets you hear these sounds:

blue formations in the busy zones

jazz, trucks & the shattering vibration

that's only aluminum foil being shaken