This day, too, will end. Already
daylight has begun to go inside
and turn on the lamps.
The cool night air laps at the corners of the windows.
There is a moment just
after the sun is finally down, deep beneath
the soil, when you can hear the sound of nothing:
a ringing in your ears. The table and chair, which looked
so ordinary at noon, begin to
glow, their edges sharpening.
This is what the end
of every day is like.
A chair creaks,
an airplane flies overhead. Only
sometimes I forget to listen.