There’s a feud of channels in these hills,
vestigial, spare, like an old man’s thatches,
tangling at the dial’s end with scratches
of impotent invective. Warring wills
interrupted by valleys of silence,
exhaustion. Territories don’t apply
these days. Precincts are infinite as sky
when warbling waves of sound skirt every fence.

I’ve driven home before, one hand on wheel,
fingers scanning vague alarms, devotions;
clearly tuning in depends on motion.
The knob sticks; ads, sermons, songs, chatter feel
all wrong. I turn again. It takes me through
a hundred miles, this locking on to you.

—Max Cavitch