Quiet After NoiseSyncingWall
Quiet After NoiseQuiet After Noise
Every piece on the shelf gets the same fire.
Stories that stay with you, just nothing arrives after the noise.
By the time the tape began to fade, the street had already stopped talking about it.
Half an inch deep, milled into the edge of a night highway.
Four legs, one folded coaster, and a floor that runs toward the street.
Two hands on the bars, and neither of them was holding it up.
A new pan arrives bare, grey, and almost impossible to cook on.
Some books only speak when you hand them over.
What the fallow rows were doing while the rest of the farm kept counting seasons.
A tin can, a pinhole, and four months of sky.
Forty miles logged in a room with only one wall in view.
