The Paris Review

Sonic Age

Sounds that came into the world in my lifetime
already sound old-fangled: dial-up modems,
the implosion of a television tube
in a set dropped from a high window. Green geeks
go digitally capturing lyrebird gronks
and atavistically soothing aggregates
of infinitesimal sonic events
like pine needles rubbing in ruddy darkness
or droplets falling back into the ocean.
Grist to the mill of the marvelous creatures
firm in their briefly shared belief that music
is all around us, even in chords hammered
on a Wurlitzer electric piano

or commuters chatting (the vernacular
turns up fully new (not) intensifiers),
though many are now absorbed in pocketfuls
of sound: a satin voice whispering “Enter
the silence,” a robot singing E MO TION
with touching persistence. Everyone can feel
the rails joining under the wheels of the train,
while deaf kids sign and double up with laughter.