She writes about the constant
tintinnabulation in her ear,
the screen of blue-grey static
background to every other noise.
Silence, therefore, becomes
a field of buzzing premonitions:
electric fence, jumpy periphery
coiling around surfaces that poorly
reflect the moon or its shadows,
unsorted vegetation— what mouths
said and what the mind picked out
or mistook for something else. Now
when we talk on the phone, I wonder
what vapors away, divides; conveys.
In response to an entry from the Morning Porch.
OTHER POSTS IN THE SERIES
- [poem removed by author]
- In the hotel with thin walls and the name of a poet,
- Close Reading
- Soul Spa
- The difficulty
- When we speak through a medium
- Whatever it is
- Uncle Frank warned my father
- What can you hear in this downpour?
- Sketches for a Genealogy