Crushing our pains inside
An hour long of warmth,
Which, indeed with neglect
For the tangibility of time,
Was an eternity of comfort;
Preserves the minute that
Makes the previous obsolete.
And there were beasts in the ceilings,
Who having sought to devour us,
Watch jealously now o’er us;
With an erstwhile fleeting epiphany,
That the best laughter is that
Which does not make a sound.
From mumbles of gibberish which thread
The streets on cold summer nights.