i sit in a room with ocean walls;
waiting, wondering what is safe
what has become routine.
perhaps there was never such a thing as the morning star
but there was night with a moon,
with a grace, with a flicker of tongue.
the same songs always play.
we remember them but turn them down
but when strangers walk by my head hums
and i like everything soft rather than loud;
i have to strain which means i'm listening.
i always lock my door.
we are the end of the fireworks.
