these stairs creak

cars passing

night passing

all the lights in the house

are off now

branches of ecstatic silver

entering through the gleaming window

the fan stutters

we can talk about it

if you want to

tables laden

using old cups

again and again

without washing

how the door closes

a sound in the dark

how oddly can time look

to the eyes of its only sons

forms behind blurry glass

birds strung on wires

waiting for impenetrable signal

biding moments before flight

look upwards

here the moon

here the call

this night will go on

with or without you

ocean under stars

black and shapeless

creaking into dawn

nodules of day

appearing in the sky

finishing what remains

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