Boy Meets Gramophone.(Poem)

 
BOY MEETS GRAMOPHONE 
 
   Malayan beetles died for this, crushed 
   for the gramophone--compacted into music, 
   rotating at 78. The hairs on my arms stood 
 
   on end. A man serenading a mule would 
   sweep me off my feet, as the curved horizon 
   of a shellac disc dipped and rose with the 
 
   song that was sailing on the starless black 
   of its sea, a song spinning like the earth 
   on a wobbly axis of sound. 
 
   Businesslike as a tailor, I'd ...