Late Hours

On summer nights the world

moves within earshot

on the interstate with its swish

and growl, and occasional siren

that sends chills through us.

Sometimes, on clear, still nights,

voices float into our bedroom,

lunar and fragmented,

as if the sky had let them go

long before our birth.

In winter we close the windows

and read Chekhov,

nearly weeping for his world.

What luxury, to be so happy

that we can grieve

over imaginary lives.