No glitch in the creation plan and yet
my mind skips and repeats over old tracks
as though, as though in early days a scratch
a fleck of dust crept in, crept in, upset
the balance of it all. With every beat
the tension in these ancient grooves – this wax –
threatens now to jump, to echo back.
What function is at fault? What needle head
was broken at the start? What plan, what plan
has bred this error in the early heart?
Unglitch, unglitch; return, reboot, play true;
the data will cohere when they are scanned
beneath the eyes that made your every part
and never will the glitching past win you.
The Consolations of Writing 