The doors rattle, each has its own sound My office door behind me Is the click of the latch the door with the economic map of China 2008 But there are light booms of doors downstairs The upstairs bedroom doors each their own sound In unison more or less with the sighing trees Sighing not quite so loud that the streets, morning, will be strewn with flowers leaves and branches Midnight has gone and the slight screech of distant train wheels scraping the curving rails Too I will go out and stand in the dark silence as the sliding windows shudder slightly then stop. As does the wind.
Midnight Jan 15-16th
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Posted: Jan 2021
About this poem:
Just sounds and sensations from this night in Sydney
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