We come at night because
it’s the only time we are free
and it’s the only vulnerable time
the air is stale
darkness tries to rectify this
lack of light breathing into
my blasting radio
the only sound beyond
is small and usual
crickets and nocturnal things
Spying into vacant windows from forgotten roadside
they leave some lights on, most of them
or the television
relentlessly washing empty
electronic colors over post-midnight rooms
the shallow light sustains an outlandish stability
like a sadistic pop culture nightlight
On the yard junk cars and dead farm equipment
sit out to rust
just like the child obsessed with justice
stifled
The people here withdraw to sheltered houses
they stare at screens so long
they start to reflect their own blankness
deciding what they see
until every day’s a rerun
I’d like to visit this place sleeping
lying dormant in-between layers of dream
and hybrids of unconsciousness
enter homes through passive doors
locate every lost, unwritten diary
and read them all cover to cover
would I love or hate them more