the quiet loud of night

In the quiet loud of night is where children lay dreaming of brave knights on horses with swords slaying vicious dragons and of princesses in castles with chests of trousseux at bed-end; and in the quiet loud of night is where the chests of old men ebb and err and stir healthy wives from dreams of spiderwebs on wooden trestles and of smooth sequined dresses that sparkle gold; and in the quiet loud of night you can see her, almost feel her, moving through trees with dew-kissed leaves and birds that, sleeping, sing no song.

You can hear her moving. Hear the soft wet of dirt underfoot, hear the strange comfort of blocked nose breathing, hear the scratch of pine bristle on arm. Hear her moving, in the quiet loud of night. And you can see her, moving. See her slip through shallow streams of moonlit silver and catch the silverwet on her shins and all below her knees; and see the bones of her toes bend and burrow beneath a blanket of skin on her bare feet as she slips tippy-toed through shallow streams of moonlit silver, and tip-toes up sponged streambanks and over crisp and fallow grass towards the hoard of sleeping people in the tender, tired town.

On a hill she stands, then crouches for cover, and scans the tender, tired town. From the hill she can hear nothing but the thin thick of the wind and the sounds it brings: cicadas chirping, weedplants brustling, shallow stream slushing. A life with blurred edges. From the hill she can see everything but the bright of the people in the wake of their sleep: dark shadowy rooftops lit in slits by sleek moonlight, yellow-orange streetlight fuzzy on black white-striped tar, and quiet. Oh, the quiet loud of night.

She moves with catgrace. Moonlight lights her cheekbones and her small nose and if you listen, strain your ears and listen closely, you can hear the sand between her toes shifting and scraping amongst itself as she hugs the shrubbery of the hill and creeps closer to the tender, tired town she left to wake to empty bed-linen so long ago.

It was twelve seasons before and she swore she'd never return to the tender, tired town. Always tender, always tired. Always sleeping. Yes, it was twelve seasons ago when she left the slow languid quiet loud of night for the fast loud of octane, cheap cocaine, pernicious pricks with infected dicks and slow, seeping pain. The outside pain was always there in red lumps and itchy bumps that pussed and puffed her pussy, but it was the inside pain that almost killed her. Always inside. A part of her. A parting present from the tender, tired town.

Oh that poor, tender town. That poor, tired town.

The sheets were never changed and the days, weeks and numbers meant nothing, because one day, one day she'd come home and fill the bed-linen again. Resume residence in the quiet loud of a linen outline. Find sleepful repose in the quiet loud of night. No more silent screams. No more violent dreams. Just sleepful repose, in the quiet loud of night. And tonight, moving through shallow streams and over fallow crisps of grass towards the poor town, tonight, she is the loudest quiet there ever was.

Milky light mellows the night and makes way for day, and in the last loud moments of the quiet night, children slay dragons and lay in dank urine puddles of dragon blood, and the old men cease to breathe, and their healthy wives fall unfaltering into material dreams. And in that milky light of morn, a wet, worn and wan serial lover slips through shallow streams of moonlit silver, and listens to sleeping birds among dew-kissed leaves wake and sing song to daybreak, and watches as the quiet loud of night gives way to the bright dark of day.