The moan of late-night cars cruising the highway—
ghostly, but not ghosts. Call them cries at 3 a.m.,
memories bursting forth from the brain,
gasps in bed, a shout to the darkness.
Or call them inadequacies, pains,
breaths too quick, perpetual reveries:
that time you, sick, quit your job and fled
to anywhere, multiple places, seeing multiple
sights and multiple people, all who smiled
and looked around, seemingly happy,
but inside were bursting
with the same stuff as you, the same fears
and inabilities, minds calling out for touch, comfort,
someone to come and break the glass in this emergency—
minds getting softer, duller,
minds, no, souls,
weakened by slow dying.
When the clocks stopped
and the numbers flashed frantic
and disordered on their faces,
we realized time was a void,
as fake as the thing we nail
to our walls, the thing with days,
the thing with dates,
with cheerful notes.
I, bereft, shout to the sky
and ask for some clarification.
But the silence says it all.
The sky can’t see the cratering world,
the buildings trembling and falling,
the fires real and unreal burning.
We think it can. But no.