Day rotates thru night and the quiet, sulkily departs,
but, before the frost begins,
a screech rents the air.
"Punta. You tart," splits the silent night in twain.
When did I start dreaming in Spanish?
And i'm aroused...
To find the windows slight crack's filtering sounds,
no longer braced by fully formed foam.
A girl/wife/missus in flagrante with a brother/father/son's been found?
Then, as the fallen plug's popped, the last few hours skid,
into a filed abyss late 20 10,
riding blossoming morning sun.