Christopher Howell LISTEN Is it an empty house, the body alone with its weary old clothes or its bullet holes and severed arteries, last laugh still shining in its teeth? The road of answers leaps its ditch and descends a dusty hollow where nightbirds coo, Pass by, and the Angel of Nothingness does his nails. Often sky dazzles over the great breathing earth. Often of its own accord the grain begins again to simmer. Are these the shudderings of a clockwork toy? Deep in the dark I find my wife’s hand and listen as the blue trees bow and bend and I want my soul to tell about itself almost anything. And it says I, too, am a traveler. Wait for me.   Copyright © 2005 by Christopher Howell. All rights reserved.