A wrong call. Or maybe, song? More night. A telephone rings in an empty phone booth: shards of light in alto along the aluminum. A person passes by, discussing the day to a cupped hand. A car slides in another direction—the figure tethered to the wheel, dark maybe tired, resembles other figures. Blinker flickering. Wet street sad yellow then near black. Nothing summons.    

What Gets Flung Gets Sung

An interest in an interiorority. Semi-orbicular, perhaps. Or, if to explain (a quantity of logic here), if to "have words," numerously, one must possess a sensed, a fixed, idea, then the phone should ring, endlessly it would seem. Lights lit up at night left lit during the day: something shining but not shiny.   

The Mediator

Hidden hints—revealed in half concealing. A switch. An eyelid. And sudden night supposedly—say, reportedly—lit on the scene: an esurient etude. An undiscovered cave damaged by insurgent forces of, well, not light . . . Paper-thin, the eyelid postpones examinations; it refuses inquiry. What is obstinate, is obdurate, is not the light, not the cave. And someone, who entails—maybe exudes—transition, might shutter the night.       

Ah Meditation

Without pressure: a fragment of voice. Voice shards dulled by ponder. Instead, a caveat: grey static ignited however far back. Then: swarm. Or at least, then, the sense of it. I'm not walking down the street, not eating. No more squeezing please. None of that. But, ah, yes, there are, the birds. 

How To Go

There is an argument, or several. Being made in a corner, beside dried flowers in a red vase: an aching. Behind me: silence akin to cave paintings. Somewhere someone offers a frown.

In response: yesterday, I believe, while I was driving the long highway, I was witness to movement. Mentioning blur—blue, grey, green—lines, space, etc.—I turned. To myself I seemed located. There were words, repeated.