Statues of folkloric figures
make a spectacle of her
dying garden. She lives
in her grandmother’s
old house and hasn’t changed
a single thing about it.
Her upper windows
open outward and she takes
barefoot steps out onto
the roof tiles to play clarinet
at the moon with notes mostly
born from the lower register.
Her sad songs never bothered
anyone, but sometimes
the neighborhood dogs
would sing along
with melancholy howls,
that shook the whole town’s
dreams but didn’t wake them.
Night Reed
Teleporting Typewriter 