20 Aug Numbers Stations

Raising a shorting receiver, I catch in the midst of a dead night
Waves from a source I cannot see. Bathing my hands in the red light

Whispers the metal a garble of noise, indiscriminate buzzing
Meant for transmission; a voice of a woman whose counting in fuzzing,

Cheered repetition is ended with click-click-click, for an hour
Every night to the same end; nearby a different power

Plays four notes in a scale with a wavering, wobbly performance.
Followed by foreign, synthetic Chinese. I am filled with enormous,

Singed curiosity, cognizant still I am not the intention,
Not understanding and fruitlessly listening, where my detection

Out in the haunt of a still wet-land is a noise with no meaning,
Though it is all I can hear. It is cold out here. I am dreaming.

Once, all the stations were aligned. It was music. I look for it, thinking
Maybe it still plays somewhere. I look, and the receiver is blinking.