Can the wind rustle without the leaves? Can the air stir without the door creek? For there are seashells in my washed-up ears assuring me that I won’t sleep before death has visited me. I lay here like a battered trunk and wonder, as I gaze into the midnight garden watching Tom, whom they will no longer let wander for long, 'What sort of stifled hunt took place in heaven for the stars to pulverize And twinkle down upon the ripples like the white ash of a ghostly shipwreck never found or some gun powdered sugar? I guess I’ll taste it when I drown. “Noches de las calladas luchas” as Neruda himself knew before me like every other paper soul set fire to before him when he caught the bug and the night got hungry. As a fallen tree, I see it all and hear it all so I am forced to stare straight into the face of darkness and pose the question, 'How scared must you be to be so scary to me?'
Midnight Swims by Thomas Baruzzi is licensed under a Creative Commons Attribution-NonCommercial-NoDerivatives 4.0 International License.