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Alfred Hitchcock’s Microphone

When he died,

In an old back room away upstairs,

Alfred Hitchcock

Left a microphone On;

The tapes reveal

Nought but echoes,

The occasional passing

Of a distant train,

Rain-lashed and empty,

A gradual accumulation

Of ruffled feathers,

And the splash

Of dark waters;

These recordings

Were made in black and white,

Perfect for vertiginous encounters

With unexpected breath

Fogged upon the window pane

Between shadow

And doubt.