Here, now, alone
on the worktop of a half-asleep floor;
I hear the wind
pick up a tone or two
the windows quake
in gentle empathy
quiet, choir rain
flickering on the beat
I think of
nothing, empty
Here, now, in a
post-tengah-hari bite of egg, chia, green tea;
I hear the
ambiguity of the fan, whirring,
in the barking
lane, the odd, tiring car
3 10 pm, a long
time to night cheer
I think of
nothing, empty
