You're in my Address Book somewhere

The skitter of the needle on the record,
and I can see you eyes - sick, wolflike -
twitching in seas of grays, a
quality of consciousness as clear as
the downtown shores waves: grainy, dark.

The scratches are still on the
flowerprint wallpaper, the numbers on the door
are the same echo in the schedule,
but those few half syllables that breeded
between our bodies
[on warm nights in blooming gardens
that you'll never remember right, no]
have aged and left us in a sweep of energy,
the few telegraphic dashes of friction
rhythmed to match how your last footsteps
scuffed sidewalks home.

The song still plays right, needles find
their grainy homes and your soul is somewhere,
but it's like I never knew it's name.

[on warm nights in blooming gardens
that you'll never remember right, no]

This line disrupts the flow and atmosphere of the poem, perhaps intentionally, but its purpose is not clear. The image of a needle finding a home is a clever one. The last line's a bit of a letdown. Hmm, this poem is not one of your best, but it certainly could be with some revision. Emphasize that metaphor throughout, subtly as always, but don't lose the focus you establish early.

Your poetry always has these great images that never really seem connected. You don't have to stick to one 'leitmotif' or whatever for the entire poem, but if you use very diverse images, you need to find a way to connect them and I think that's lacking here. There's a certain charm in the occasionally acid trippy poem that jumps from image to image, but I don't think this one quite works...you have the record player at the beginning and the end, but you've got the wolf image, the garden image, et cetera and none of it seems to tie together.