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There are birds crying at night, every
night, confused
by the fluorescent glow of street lights. Some of them sound
like cell phones. He remembers reading that somewhere,
that they do that now. With the windows down, it's too still
to sleep, with them up, the mad shrieks keep him wired. Noise
whites out noise, both together make a quiet of sorts. Water
lapping against a pier, a rain that never ends
and never falls, pretend the night lasts sixty minutes
and is nothing like that confusion out the window.
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