Cincinnati

the fan drones on beyond the whirring air displaced
in series by one hurtling mass and then the next,
asphalt's scraping sound (its torture),
hums and clicks of engines passing just above that bite;
(a surf-like background less than these recalls to me
the roar that penetrates those bedded closer to the hub).
a punctuating water starts and stops above my head:
the pipes that groan its course along my wall speak loudly of the fact
that i am not alone awake and cannot claim this night.


this fan is blessed — it shuffles room and breath into caress
against these thumps and bangs at three a.m. that enter
with the sweet, dry air who came this spring to transit me
inside a single-windowed cube, and make me now contrite:
the visage of my no-more childhood home returns to say
its fan was lapping waves
its plumbing egret's moonlight shriek in gator's jaw
its torture was the constant quiet burst of spores disturbing only spiders' sleep,
yet none of these are heard through seals that lower power bills
and jalousies cranked tight.


this fan, this place, this land i dreamt before i came
cannot be overrun by decibel, cannot be mined and paved until
it's something not its Origen:
its folk in spirit guard its soul from human misery
its creatures call them back to cross the street with deer
they sing to us of freedom in the taps and rhythms man contrives
and through that open window bear a dark, dark light.