by Ginger Hütter,
No words but what the market permits.
When I look out across this apartment block
just after the sun comes up, it hits
me then, the bricked-in quiet: we’re rent
torn, cleaved people—hardly neighbors at all.
With the right ears you could hear an atom
spinning; sometimes you can hear through walls:
anger mostly, like a domestic anthem
Friday nights when the weather turns warm,
men who spent all week rehearsing silence,
women who spent all week performing
customer service with a smile—that violence
its frequency, amplitude go somewhere;
& sitcom laughter fills the summer air.