BY ZAC PITSILLIS
Late in the quiet of the night
when even the wind is blown out,
I sit alone and listen.
This city is not dead.
Sometimes there is the low hum of a car skulking off, or
The occasional fragments of laughter and music pass over.
Sometimes I hear the distant moans of lovers,
the faded shouts of drunk bergies left lost in their wines.
Once I heard the tinkle of a cat as he stalked across the lawn,
a little bell strapped to his neck, laughing out,
destroying the tense hunt, the blood rushed chase.
But, what I always hear is the quiet.
Those dense moments when I am alone with nothing but the beat and sing,
there is no lover next to me to moan in the sticky heat of our wrapped limbs,
or fill the quiet with open murmurs.
Maybe a bell is strapped to my neck,
maybe I prefer the silence,