most nights i spend in silence. there's no popping record, radio dial's turned left and off, enduring the sounds of my own body, a lighter flicking, the cats thumping, and cars, two, three, four of 'em in a row throwing blades of light across the ceiling.

the typewriter chugs on like a missed train. a new one is promised to me and there'll always be other trains.

i wonder does the sound eventually go...? the chuga-chug--
like a womb, perhaps it's warming.
maybe that's why jack stayed out there all those years,
loving, longing a moving bed, but also silence.
under the moon, the stars don't seem to fuss, space expands and so recedes the understanding of everything else, even the night, the familiar sometimes howling mistress sings a little deeper, she's wearing a new perfume, her laughter is tranquil in the moon beams.

all's left is your silence,
your awe that you can never hold her enigmitity as she embraces your form.