Subtle, those sounds,
of the nighttime alive.
Curtain flutters, window shutters, wind
slinks through a wire screen and the
street lights twinkle, bright.

They smile. Slender fingers wound
tightly around his arm,
sweatered and buttoned and scarred.
They count their steps.
Tiptoeing through tense
tree root-ravaged cement
in slowed time
to the warped rhythm of the nighttime alive.

And each leaf sways to that
penetrating hum. Windy thumbs
bend branches, tango
with twig and vein.

That rustle,
quick, hushed,
tangling her silken strands,
strangling her heart-

as his blood sings the song
of the nighttime alive.