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