Pink Noise Machine
The ear knows the river—
even the river made methodical,
flumed and dammed—
from an untuned radio.
It knows white noise, an oxbow
bolo of electric burs,
from pink. Pink static
runs on moonbeams. Consider
the ocean, its sough,
its surf. A lunar crank
spins water into waves and slides
tides in and out.
The ear knows families
of sounds. It knows the motor
that pocks mute night
from the tranquil growl
of swells and rills and westerlies.
Only pink can a current
sound like the rattling
of envelopes’ cellophane windows
nights your dad paid bills.
JANE ZWART teaches at Calvin University, where she also co-directs the Calvin Center for Faith & Writing. Her poems have previously appeared in Ploughshares, TriQuarterly, and Poetry, as well as other journals and magazines.