the city burns
in silence.
traffic lights all play in unison
an unreal silence
of a sleeping ghost
giant
the city sleeps and dreams
and breathes
it's impossible
but it's true. far far away
wooden floor squeaks
less-than-perfect radios
and blue television shadows
make up for a humming white noise
and a collective diaphragm
that lifts and rests till the first one wakes
and then it's all too loud.
it's impossible
it's perfect. and perfectly true.
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