The man downstairs is watching
the Titanic movie at full blast.
Upstairs another man is talking to himself, 
the way the hummingbird does in the morning
when she knows we must be listening.
Outside he sees the darkness that holds
the yellow smiles of wet on leaves.
The wind is like the sea, we all know that,
and all the noises surrounding silence
are the reincarnated birds we are,
the bodies full of waves.

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