Stepping from white into black

from day into night.

Called out by who knows what.

The night jasmine perhaps, the fireflies,

the rising coolness of the water tank.

All day a folding of facts, thoughts,

wants, packing a new history

to take back on the plane, south

to where the ticket flies, your name

a stub, a booking with an address

devoid of the self you thought 
was you        so little effort needed

to embrace unpeopled hectares,

stars crawling over the hill

like incandescent spiders, a sudden

owl in whisper flight, a lethal silence

of beak and claw which you permit

to trap your small squeak of fright;

listening then through the night

to Earth’s silent orbit, wishing for

a way to unmanufacture noise, for

a way to keep yourself timelocked,

here, where your loudening city

has no foothold, no residence.