Mornings Smoke Detector

The most important noise you will know: the smoke detector with a dying battery' out in the stair well going off every three minutes with the aggression of bass coming from passing cars in Washington Heights to mid-town and just loud enough so sleep folds in on itself. Dreaming takes on a different meaning with a different face turning from a black and white movie to yellowed film still, flat motionless and all that is left are the waking hours. It takes technique to escape the sound that keeps you incarcerated in an A tonal tomb. Street lights cast the turning silhouettes of fly paper in the living room. And there is always the hope for the hissing of the radiators two months away when the heat turns moist and heavy like the collective breath of Argentina.