[...] Little aching creature stuttering to the nightThe poem ends with punning anticipation:
like a tiny violin, you look like one of Liszt's hemi-demi-semi-
quavers scrawled across night's long stave. With you I count
insomnia's digits, all your mal-arias are buzzing in my blood.
I'm waiting, Morse-quito, for my hand to slap a messagefrom Storm and Honey
back — just once, loudly — and quick as your electric dialect.
And so for day 1257
23.05.2010