Quiet Now

It is quiet now,
in the half eaten twilight,
grey shapes of passing cars
and the upstairs rooms
with berries of light
bulging suddenly into fruit,
lightbulbs coming on,
and in dark doorways
they pause by the switch
barely visible, beholding
the outlines of their rooms,
these other human beings.
At the skyline aerials rise,
thickets of wire and metal,
microphones and lenses
of the suburban brain.
Red plumes of cloud rise
from the bleary smog,
aeroplanes make off into night,
black as submarines.
The ground rumbles from trains,
like a heart murmur.
Lonely sometimes at night.
When will you come home?