Disquiet

It’s That Time:

The silence of night hours

is never really silent.

You hear the air,

even when it doesn’t stir.

It’s a memory of the day.

Nothing stirs. Memory lags.

No traffic hushing up

and down tricky hills

among the camphor trees.

No foghorns, no streetcars’

shrilling phantoms before

they emerge from tunnels.

These absences keep us alert.

No rain or street voices,

nobody calling to someone else,

Hannah, you walk the dog

tonight yet or what?

Only certain things to hear:

The sexy shifting of trees,

the refrigerator buzzing

while Cherubino sings

the best of love is enthusiasm’s

intense abandon, a voice

in song that preys on no one

and is unconscious of its joy.

W. S. Di Piero.