chester giles writes

towerblocksonthehill 

all the sounds of the ghosts
  and the thieves
as they clamber around the house.
 and neighbours through the wall
with your head beneath the water
and the orange light of street lamps hissing in next doors court yard
   over the wire fence
with the dark tumbling off of the the slopes of roofs
making its way between the leaves
  and through the guttering
passing between the columns and stair wells.
and the night moves across the cool clean tiles
  and the paving
and finds its way under the door
 seeping into everything
  endless
thick and calm and superstitious.
the light of the neighbours windows becomes opaque
 squares of pastel luminescence
 like mosaic
switched on
   and off
and the endless
like a soft deliberate spell
whispered and hushed beneath the breath
so you can breathe
and be steady or unsteady.
and there is  great and vast in that silence
with out the limit of possibility