One by one, sodium streetlamps purr
& click off as my neighbor's half-ton coughs & revs, coughs
& finally turns over & he heads off: gravel tire-churn
a gangsta rap bass-line thumping from the cab, circling out
like pond water after a stone's plunk. In the end, it's all
a question of ear, says Kierkegaard, meaning in the next life:
the next life as pure music, heaven's harmonic resolve to Being's
sour arpeggio. But for now, suburbia is tuned
to dream's white noise, that octave three steps above
wakefulness, the one right before the clock radio
bleeps on, the percolator auto-grinds, & the front door rehearses its slam.
- Joshua Robbins
