Starry Starry Might

There's a rain that falls. A pelting. A hand against hand that rattles like thunder sticks in a primeval train station. There's a rain that falls outward and upward and never falls down, at least not until the microphone cuts out and the people stand. There's a rain that falls before you hold your breath. There's a rain that falls after. There's a lifetime in the meanwhile.

I've been inhaling sound. I've been exhaling silence.

There's a man in Tel Aviv who used to share my nights with me and I've forgotten how to talk to anyone else.

I press "prive" on my franco-phone and reflect on the way 3,000 handclaps taste through a Carnegie echo.

I come home to a family that wants me to heal, but know that I'm addicted to insomnia.

My gratitude is misconstrued as ennui.

The tunes in my head progress in Yiddish, and I wait for politicians to forget what I keep feeling.

I'm proud of something. I'm not sure what it is.

It's time to flip the vinyl, for this side's getting weary.

Shh.