I can hear sleep.

The gentle rustle of people absently adjusting the sheets.
An occasional sigh in response to a nerve-generated movie blaring
soundlessly, colourlessly
on a pervading black.
Beetles bugging their highpitched lullabies that they practiced all day long,
and suddenly, cleared their throats.
Automobiles on roads a kilometer away, doing dizzy speeds, groaning under commodity, guiltily sounding their horns.
The distant, bored mid-
A muted yelp, when leaves rustle.
A conscious, testing bark.

the keyskin depressing, stretching, flexing,
at my command.

i can hear

supersonic pixel-made sounds sourced from the telly gagged
by the mute button.

rhythms set at morning,
unfastening buttons hastily at night.

bored canvas.


1 thought on “Twelve”

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