I hear things sometimes that I don’t want to hear. And maybe I shouldn’t be hearing them, but they come to me anyway, beggars looking for a place to stay, a bit of spare change, a touch of representation they could only have through these tired fingers.

He lit another cigarette as he listened to her answering machine. He hung up as the tone sounded. He needed to hear the voice. He had nothing to say back.

They come out of the air. Off the streets, too. They’re hidden in the hum of power lines, in the swishing of leaves, in the billowing waves on beaches, the smooth rotation of tires. They wink at me from the cold outlines of clouds, the stillness of the moon and flares that link the traffic lights and the stars in arcs of light.

The saxophone shook as the last note took its exit through invisible cracks in the ceiling.

Smoke and fire. Something beautiful. I don’t know what I’m looking for, or even if I’m looking at all. It’s just sensitivity really. Something everyone has. And like anyone else, sometimes I ignore it. And sometimes, I can’t.

Rolling barrels down

Stop. Stop writing lines. Go to sleep, for once in your life.

Skies crawling with

Stop.

Her blanket was

Damn it all, no. Damn it all.

The

Place

Falling

Apart

I

walk

walk away

Don’t…

I turn around.