and we are nearly
a quiet interrupted
only by breathing
and the hum of wires
through the streets.
A pickup truck bounces
down the block, maybe
its passenger had a bit to drink,
shouts a "whoop!" into the night.
This is the place where the poem
might turn--a woman might shift in the bed,
unable to stop the wrestling
match in her head. But tonight, in every room--
all over the city--the people remain
untroubled for a time,
a tiny gift, their worries
absorbed, whirled, and burning
with starlight.
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