Tonight

The branch clicks back when the bird starts.

The senator leans away from the microphone.

The room drowses around the dog on the sofa.

The tectonic plates edge closer, closer.

She likes the flotsam when the orchestra tunes up.

The telephone rings with real emotion.

Now some of them are old and no longer know.

The actor forgets but improvises from experience.

The protesters gather outside the airport.

He has failed again to understand his diagnosis.

Something warm roars at tonight’s torn edge.