the sieve and the sand

it gets quiet enough,

and although it is rare it does happen
usually at night when the traffic has died down
and the only footsteps are drunk ones and
after the bar closes as those footsteps too
find beds to sleep in and even the pigeons
recognize when their dusty wings are beating
the air too loudly,
 

            for twenty seconds
 
and for whatever reason only if I am in the
bathroom but before the faucet is running, before
I am filling another glass of water or washing
my face and after the toilet flushes, even after
it is silent completely, if I’m not making noise
of my own, 

                        in these moments

when if you were to step outside, to finish
your glass of water or have a cigarette
you would find an odd chill waiting to lift
up the hairs on your arm and sneak under 
your shirt, not cold enough to lead you back
inside for a jacket, merely to note it as
“one of those weird summer night when it
cools down too much and maybe it means it
will rain soon”
 

                                    right then

when I am so close to sleep it seems only
under a pillow, when the day has shaken my
legs clean of muscle, when my eyelids are
sliding down a pole to a pile of sad dreams,
 

                                                if I listen carefully

I can hear four stories down and under the
sidewalk, the subway blurring by, and if 
I am lucky, it sounds like the end of the world.