The trains are running cargo. They are far off in the distance, but you can hear the Ferdinand in their charging horns riding the ambient surge of car engines as they course down Wadsworth, our little Pamplona Mechanism reaches toward sacrament, a ritual closure of the day, bread of an ever-moving body, before stripping off its robes and climbing in the windowsill. As bone tired as any other supplicant tick-tocking its way through a hot suburban night. Sweltering, shut down, save for a whining, oscillating fan that hiccups every time it draws its head from left to right. Its little breath Shifts nothing. It stares through its central eye, Shakes its upturned, cagey head, knowing certain facts. The day’s sun rays are still dissipating from the asphalt, the brick, the summer glass. And if there is a little sun, they'll bake again tomorrow. Your absence, my not being there, the vain assumption that we should ever meet that anyone can ever meet without the pull of a pin, on the fixed, unwavering stare is just the heat leaving me at the end of the day. The wave that rolls in where there is no sea and pulls away the absent shoreline.