The absence of things.
Television, radio, movies---all of it years and far behind
not even a whisper anymore these spaces broken
of their commercial potential these spaces broken
into blocks of pulsating time that have nothing to do with me
the dogs erupt and hurl themselves into the dark
a fox passing or the dream of one
the hawks just recently returned from where?
screech as they soar for mates or just
to chill small creatures with fear
the gekko on the railing cackling its laugh who knows?
but insects die instantly a tongue quicker than the eye
I enter and exit the moments of these creatures with no effect
and they cannot be turned on or off

Wind.
It comes over the mountain and pummels the house
it comes off the Atlantic whooshes over France smacks Italy
stirs up the Adriatic comes right over that mountain
rattling the shutters whipping the olive trees to a clacking froth
drowning everything else till it's off across the Aegean where it drives
the islanders mad with its unchecked howl and on to Turkey, Iran,
the gates of Peshawar where slopes of dust cling to every corner.

For the sound of my wife and son returning.
I get up and step outside. The rain has increased and the drips
from the roof fall and smack into puddles of mud. I see the lights
of a car far away driving on the mountainside, bound for Kalamata,
and nothing else, utter darkness and cascading water.
They're not due for an hour yet. This is not silence but I ponder the silence
of my father dying on the other side of the planet
rendered mute by his own personal future.
Sounds wash over him and he is not moved
for he listens to conclusions that really are.

Earth.
Earth sucking up all the night has to give.