A swish like the waves
and unlike them.
Comes up through the partially open window
filtered, as it is, through the screen
comes with only a semi-metronomic regularity:
The cars, up the street, accelerating on to the overpass.
From a galaxy away, on a satellite.
Or from another open window into mine.
Sounding here like the monospeaker of a transistor radio
Timid in this my neighborhood, perhaps, for its lack of bass.
Steve Miller imploring keep on rocking me, baby
it drifts off and away down 195. Or maybe past the moons of Venus.
Twisted up covers and battered down blankets,
Pillows stacked asymmetrically. Testify to my sleeplessness.
They told me and I never believed them.
About the sort of things
that would happen to me.