I hear it sometimes after
the wolf stops
whinnying.
Those unstoppered nights
when cicadas
hesitate.
The reason I still listen,
here at the outpost,
is that once you
spoke to me with dulcet
lies and I
found I liked it. Now my
head is
damaged, leaking a bit
like the light
leaks around your pictures.
I listen just as
damn hard
as I can
and out near the switching yard
a switch is made.
It’s all there.
The changing of tracks, the
changing of
clothes, the changing of
the light, the names we never
used, the
baby’s last words,
the world turning on an old
axle, your astonishing lies,
the actual jazz.