Lowering the needle, I scalpel the groove,
          a guitar’s slur my unsteady finger
                    interrupts—the vinyl myth of America
scratched and slipped sleevewise. Dark in its slim case

          a guitar’s slur steadies my fingers
                    startled by shot hole headlines. I’m
scratched, slipped sleevewise, shelved in a slim case,
          and darkened, dimmed under each deep

                    chord strummed. Startled by shot headlines
low beats loop, the needle riding back
          and darkened under deep dim
                     repeating, deep dim repeating, deep dim

low beats loop, the needle slipping back.
          I’ve lowered the needle jittery, scalpeling 
                    the groove, an alteration to soft vinyl, 
to hot notes, an interruption to America’s vinyl myth.