Shantih Journal 2.1 - Page 53

In the middle of the night, I awoke to find my friend sitting next to my bed speaking in several voices all at once. Neither bus nor poet, he claimed to be searching for butterflies and fireflies in my dreams. After that, I could not get back to sleep. “Pull the cord when you want to get off,” he said. I wanted to shout at him, but remembered that silence was its own kind of noise, like a bus backfiring on its way to the cemetery of lost songs and buried poems and paragraphs in a wilderness of words. 53