Some come across as breathy, broken voices alone in a smoky room
With mismatched couches and burlesque wallpaper peeling and singed at the edges.
Some have the voice of a ringmaster booming
“Ladies and gentleman, boys and girls”
Ricocheting through an empty big top tent.
Some are starlight summer moments, fairy lights in June.
Others are the lazy hum of a rickety screen door at lunch hour.
But some are brought into existence in silent wails or drips of blood against linoleum
Written with contented gazes on Sunday mornings avoiding sunlight.
