There was the rattle of the machine and a vigorous thump on its flanks, another noisy night thump to quiet the dusty cooling fan inside C.P.U. letters separated by layers of dust. They fly away, keep them together with full stops between the letters.
The water bottle is down with a neck hole semi-circular for sipping like a semicircular moon in balcony with a night wind quietly humming.The night watchman’s whistle bores a semi-circular hole in the midnight.
Now is pressure on top of a prostate falling for a leak, like expected cloud in monsoon any time coming but not, being satirical about a swollen strawberry lightly woken from sleep for poetry. A sarcasm is about the old man’s love life come to caesura. A vigorous thump administered yields no love results , punctuation gone through a window. Poetry is still left in a night’s layers when peeled like tearful onion rings nothing at the core,only an absence,a silence between the layers of dust.