Untitled (“The device in my dream was a phonograph horn…”)

The device in my dream was a phonograph horn
wired to a needle-ended pen. When I pressed its tip

to the walls of your old home, it lifted old vibrations
& thus spoke you to life. These, your accidental echoes,

caught moments unawares: you shushing the water heater,
apologizing to your hands. Surely something I ripped off

Edison’s spirit-phone, eavesdropping on dead Yanks.
When Castor passed, Pollux was so crushed

he begged to kiss the river.
Forgive me, brother, but I cannot kiss the river.

In this banquet full of laughter, I am hiding all the knives.
I press my palm against your journals & trace your words

with lid-capped pens, wondering whether walking
in your footsteps might somehow help me hark.