Hush hush, the dogs are down, children are horizontal
and trees are infinitesimally lowering themselves to the floor.
Bang bang goes silence. Boom boom is the quiet,
so loud it carries our heads up the walls.
Trickle trickle, the rivers we walked ten years ago.
Hollow train tunnels we hollered in—those echoes at last reach us.
And the rolls of souls, sudden, they lurch,
stand us onto our toes, oldie music hanging
in wilted strands of the ghostly car stereos,
the static mayhem biting in the dull search.
Hear it? The scent. Time triggered the fingers into reminiscence.
And the dud vacuum ate the bullet. Streets crowded
now shook in the stillness. And I’ve half-a-mind
to bend my silky twines round, wrap two
bodies I’ve owned, and say, “One.”
I once desired a blonde. I once sniffed pepper on a dare.
I once folded paper and set it sailing over the backyard.
Now I eat spinach. Now I roll an oxidized penny in my hand.
Now I fall asleep with the tv on and buy store brands
and I light fires.