At night, air remains the same
color, though it becomes more difficult
to see through.
It contains this quavering voice,
released from a radio, dissolved
in strings and the street’s foliage.
I hear only enough to know
it is somewhere
and it sounds,
perhaps, Italian, like any voice
that air can carry and confuse.
Though, perhaps I do the confusing
by straining to make the voice clear.
Certainly, that is no the work of the artist.
– Ari Feld
