Underground, current transforms, rounds
into a measured throb of chords. Take
“Train in Vain,” broadcast without the sound
of Mick’s guitar—all low-end, the quake
of a track revived in a basement
when we were seventeen, lit and flip-
ping though a freight of Hustlers, intent
on Johnny Holmes’s moustached lip.
We would look, and look again: making
sure we recognized our meager sex
as human, eager for the birth
of Spector’s wall after countless takes.
Our hope knew his soundtrack’s reflex,
ranged like static in bandwidths of surf.