The scanner hums in vinyl folds
Rain hammers glass on Maple Street
She folds the static into code
While spin cycles mark the beat
Spin cycle psalm in white tube glow
Washing wool and sin at midnight
Her fingers trace the tuning arc
Drawing voices from the dark
The quarter slots take silver dimes
Soap scent rises through the steam
She logs the calls in violet lines
While the machines keep rhythm clean
Spin cycle psalm in white tube glow
Washing wool and sin at midnight
Her fingers trace the tuning arc
Drawing voices from the dark
Old altos rise through dryer vents
The hymns her mother taught to sing
She harmonizes with the dead
Waiting for what dawn might bring
Spin cycle psalm in white tube glow
Washing wool and sin at midnight
Her fingers trace the tuning arc
Drawing voices from the dark
Morse code clicks in lint trap teeth
Dot and dash inside the drum
She translates what the night receives
Before the morning buses come
Spin cycle psalm in white tube glow
Washing wool and sin at midnight
Her fingers trace the tuning arc
Drawing voices from the dark
