The tuning noise stops 
when he closes his eyes.  

Instead of music,  
what follows are crackles,  
gurgles, 
a warming  
radiator.  

Borborygmi 
through the pipes of the brain.  

Or maybe this is 
the music.  

And the swooping of images—a ladybug,  
mother, the Nile and its pyramids,  
the estranging mirror, snowing—is  
the ballet.  

Then the sponge cleans everything, 
smudgingly,  
like a blackboard.  

Falls off the chalk tray. 

From I  

to me. 

__

The Ekphrastic Review May 17, 2026