Tonight it is just me, Chopin,
and the fireworks flirting with
the treetops of my neighbour's garden.
Sounds of gunfire and torn wind
parade by the close-curtained window
as I give a college try for inner peace,
for outer space, or just about anywhere
besides these constant dreams of ***
and human touch.

I am setting up advertising space
for somebody to fill up my days,
to pollute my poems with contentment,
and all the other tedious adornments
that come through recounting happiness
to others. I have been at war with myself
for too long. The supplies are emptied,
the asylum; full. A trade must be made
from the written word, to a spoken voice

across the pillow, where 'goodnight'
can be heard.