Whether it’s a quake in the voice, or a full-bodied, let-the-neighbors-pause-in-their-well-carved-out-daily-routines wail is not the point. The point is that either one works.
The clusterfuck of orphaned cables, the streets stamped with ghosts — everywhere is a hostile environment, crackling, kinetic. Asking a device to forget another device, a brief feeling of jealousy at the ease. Then again, maybe there are crumbs of data left in there, shredded stars, lying like dust that waits to be disturbed by a traveler, who an entire age from now will gaze in and ask questions that unspool into more questions.
I wish you well, treasure hunter. May you crack open the bones of this house and greet the marrow. The nights I was painted white, so beautifully I took my own breath away, and the things that were said by the fire. They are not mine now, I give them to you, treat them well.
The love here is thick around my ankles, therefore I won’t stay. Everyone greets the longest night in their own way.
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The work on this website exists because you are good looking & generous.
Natalia A. 
Beautifully written and evocative.
When Nighy falls I’m always searching the interstellar dark. Because that’s where everything comes from and where it goes. This gorgeous poem brought everything there to life. The sign of a very great poet.
Your writing deeply matters.
Thank you.