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Quicksilver's "Flute Song" whose lyrics "Sounds of loneliness are
all the same" echo Nicky Hopkins' piano acciacatura trainbell approximation
further echoing mournful horns oohwahing along the tracks and the
Marina's foghorn hoot that would remind me of you if I weren't already
thinking of you nonstop. The riff whips off the nightracing Amtrak rushing travelers to their midnight destinations, the riff blares from Southern Pacific's clacketing cars laden with coal, petroleum, corn syrup, wheat, speeding across, over, through the land. I hear distance, the ballooning vowels split to the interval of a tritone, two moans uttered simultaneously but as far apart as two sounds can get, echoing our parallel paths unmeeting into infinity, two paired tracks never touching but traveling side by side and further linked by furtive glances that sting like razor slashes. 
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Night song. Moving inexorably towards death. Funereal Ellington reed dissonances wailing always inexorably away. Lullaby for a depressed insomniac. Wraiths, phantoms, worse than pure strangers to each other, such ghosts thicken the night. Black absence the pillow I embrace, submerged in lucid darkness, whose dreams are futile songs. Alexandra Yurkovsky, born in Connecticut and educated in the United Kingdom and New York City, lives in Berkeley and has published poetry in Mudlark and Modern Haiku. She publishes book reviews in the San Francisco Bay Guardian and the San Francisco Chronicle. 
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