Friday night at the Eastern Point

noises deep in the suburb of Byron Bay;

euphoric cries from a party beyond this street
but louder is the wind in the palms. 

sheer curtain against my open window bellows in and out
like a pair of empty lungs.
water of Belongil Creek pours into The Pacific with no hesitation,
no protest.
solid planets spin and orbit like a television on mute.

tonight I wish to leave no traces.