What’s that noise?

When the opium entered our veins, it swelled
them with desire for the unknown.
I wanted to see through the eyes of an octopus.
Now, night’s nearing, and there’s
an absurd turbulence in the clouds. Nothing
can be heard over the crashing din of heaven.
Not the small sound of someone
dying, which is like the sound of a dropped
screw rolling slowly back and forth on a table.
Or like grains of salt falling on salad leaves.
I’ve been dreaming of fire on a piece of
paper. I’ve been dreaming I was a comma,
interrupting the clatter of conversation. A
stone on the road. I have phone booths and
prison cells in my body – hermetic spaces
where whispers of the living and the dead
can sometimes be intercepted.