As a child, sometimes I'd lay my cheek
               on the desk and press my ear to the wood's
coolness. I'd pretend the clicking and scraping 
               I heard (echoes from other movements
around me) were proof of life beneath the surface
               —an army of ants or microscopic beetles 
carving roads, lifting stone out of hidden quarries,
                building settlements. Because if you listen 
hard even now, there are residues of sound 
                fallng inside the architecture of every 
stillness. And there are also long, rich pauses 
                akin to the quiet of sleep, which is what
others thought my bent head meant—a child
                always caught in the throes of dream.

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