The Dead Air

The dead air

looms

like the shoe of

the world waiting

to fall.

the building creeks

and bends

and a baby squeals

in some distant corner.

a phone conversation has

ended

above my head.

and then starts up again.

it is a mumbling,

nondescript

like the talking of

flat-footed souls.

I know what you're wondering

and you know what I'm thinking.

her love is like an

anesthesia.

without her the world is too

sharp.

the world is a stark

mountain range

and I am a goat climbing

up its spine.

or a snake, crawling to

sleep in its base.