Intermission. The short, sharp hiss of a cigarette landing in a beer cup. Wind sounds through the open fretwork of a microwave tower, a ghost ship’s rigging. There’s a coil of wire hanging from one spar like a spit curl or an afterthought. Is that why I’m thinking of you? It’s not as if we were ever here together, or someone in the crowd looks like you did thirty years ago. Wisps of cloud pass the full moon. The chords they sound mimic those of the tower as they drag along the face.