I cannot see you a thousand miles from here,
but I can hear you
when you cough in your bedroom
or when you set down
your wine glass on a counter.
This afternoon
I even heard scissors moving
at the tips of your hair
and the dark snips falling
onto a marble floor.
I keep the jazz
on the radio turned off.
I walk across the floor softly,
eyes closed,
the windows in the house shut tight.
I hear a motor start across the road,
a plane hums overhead,
a logging truck rumbles by
then there is nothing
but a white stone building of silence.
You must be asleep
for it to be this quiet,
so I will sit and wait
for the rustle of your blanket
or a sound from your dream.
I will listen to the ant bearing
a dead comrade
across these floorboards –
to the sounds
of his noble tread and his high keening.
Leave a Reply