Night's air tightens slowly, afternoon's
heat thinning with honeysuckle -
millions of trumpets of sun
dimmed and cool, quieting down.

The console hums through signoff,
through anthem. Then its silence gathers
elsewheres from the dark, voices
bent off blackbird chill

as city glow on approaching storm:
Buenosnoches - so fast to travel so far
with its syllable freight, electric
as new constellations on moonless nights -

so strange and difficult to find
once the disc has risen, its face
a wide, unfinished vowel
that casts its drawl on everything.