there has to be a way
  for a defunct quiet
to find its life pilfered
against surrounding scenes

   when i have your silhouette
plastered to the squalid wall
  when all else kinks in the squall
of the moon and
    everything is small.

  say, when i have you
in my retina and you hear
no communing display of text,

   that is my defeat:

a long night
wordless and slipping away,
   you, going far
unhinging from the verity
  that none has been left cold,
brazenly damaged,
   going farther and farther
streets fat, chance-ridden
   riddled and all too secretive,
verbose as quiet
   still and idle.