my latest yummy.
It’s never been that quiet, I’ve found.
It’s never that quiet that I think-
that specific quietness that I want so very much I could scream
if I could find it afterwards.
But even this morning, lying on the rug-
I heard my own ears. The buffeting sharpness
that is the constant ring inside my canals;
the tiny hairs in there being tussled by air flow.
Even then, it remains the same as it’s always been:
almost there.
And, it really isn’t comforting. I’d rather
hear the peepers, or the tree frogs latching on the porch door
with a slap; or the high winds
over me being whipped around.
just the echo of the last sound I heard- that rumble that
my drum
can’t get rid of.
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