Sound of Longing

The season finally slumps

and in the tender light behind the pane,
tired glances over swirling glasses-

couples pretend worlds
from their worn leather couches,
and fade away on a warm brass note.

A dark sun
at its highest peak

pounds at the wake
of men-
they lie there
blind and breathless,
bored forever

in its quiet warmth.


Un soleil sombre
à son plus haut sommet

martèle les hommes délurés-
Ils s'abandonnent,
aveugles et essoufflés,
à jamais ennuyés

dans sa quiète chaleur.

Better than the lonely hum of a plane
is the soft haunting tremor of the ship itself;
Sometimes in bed, with earplugs on,
the jaw forced into a hard position
rushing blood through my head,
I imitate the comforting white noise of the sky.