I dreamed last night
That I was listening to a record
Watching the needle
Spiral towards the center
Of the black disc

I remember hearing the hiss
That records always made
But not the music
Only that it felt warm and real

I have no records
No fragile vinyl discs
Molded by waves of sound
Scored by grains of dust
And wear

To be run through their
immutable sequence
Over and over
Each listening unique
And one day closer
To the  end of the record

I listen to music formed
from naughts and notches
Perfect ghosts of sound
Haunting but never ascending

Undead melodies
Perfect and untouchable