commences for the night.
I ask her if she hears it
not so much to test her ears
as to question my flickering senses
while we gulp white
from safely stemless glasses on the couch.
She confirms the presence of sound
aside from my half-drunk rambling.
I state that it's also audible
outside my apartment
as it has been for seven years
seemingly swirling down
from the street lights overhead.
Her theory involves a vent
though that's as far as her words go.
Perhaps she's referring
to a spherical globe of slotted tin
that spins atop a roof arbitrarily
but I play coy for argument's sake
stating instead that the noise
is the voice of God
that we mere mortals can't decipher.
She looks at me like I'm a madman.
Maybe for a moment I am
but the droning has stopped
and stays silent
as though one of us
who tends to shoot left
has suddenly hit
when it mattered.
Currently reading:
"The Beast God Forgot to Invent" by Jim Harrison.
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