Christopher Miles The Sun Goes Down at Last

You realize the thoughts you keep having aren’t thoughts. They’re sounds.

There’s a man in your head, and he’s dancing, and the sounds are his boots

hitting the floor of your mind. It’s a wooden floor; looks like maple.

But you hear no music. What is he dancing to then? Does this man

in your mind have a man in his mind, and is it he who is making the music?

Or is it a woman? And if it were, would her music be different

from the man’s because she once knew him? When she was younger?

When they were lovers? Or maybe they were brother and sister

and they fell in love with the same man, and this same-man rented porta potties

and hauled them to and from his customers with a trailer

behind a one-ton dually truck? I could use a truck like that, you think.

But you’re overtaken by the sound again. Only this time you don’t hear it.

You see it. In black letters on the ceiling. They appear to be cut from tissue paper.

Now things are coming right. You return to mis-interpreting the sound

as thought. You relax. To celebrate your relief, you open the window.

You hear the crash of aluminum. It’s the goats, banging the lid

of their watering tank. In the morning, you will feed them ground corn.

In the morning, they will eat from your hand.



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