A Way of Seeing
by Nancy Christopherson
in starlight that reminds me of you so far away.
There’s nothing in here worth anything
the guy at the music shop replies while thumbing
through the LPs I brought in
rather than throw away.
I fall for it, foolishly. Some were irreplaceable.
you had a life—there was a life in there once.
Just starlight and some small scribbling across vinyl.
The only things that mattered—
your school, the apartment,
autumn leaves, enough light—you still alive.
That peculiar sound—the sweet scratching rendered.
Not your voice, but like it. Every straw star burning.