It’s work, this wailing,
a daily occupation.
Alongside the light-rail
A ghost bike, a placard,
a quickening in the blood.

Murmur, breathe myself to sleep,
fleece this feeling,
Blue skies somewhere
and yeah, life goes on.

I struggle to wake,
my sharpest knife
slides along this peach’s stone,
scoop this flesh, devour.

Crepuscular light,
Fecundity of life,
Lacerate this daytime
cut through with dim.

Celerity of dusk,
and with it this gloaming,
My quidnunc neighbor
seals ear to wall to trace
my hitching breaths from air.

But it’s tomorrow now
and it is warm in Paranoia Park.
This violinist, though hardly Paganini,
embroiders sound onto sound.

His bow draws a frisson
along my spine, my nerves
His strings, vibration,
shimmering, a shock, a flush.

This moment: a reprieve,
my coffee break from grief.
All the trees are turning orange.
The days all turn to sleep.