Apr 06

I hear it

I hear it in the static of phonographs
Crooning with the sultry sound of vinyl-scratched breath
I hear it in bassinets with mothball melodies that soothe stray cats to sleep
I hear it in the bursting bulbs of film noir street lamps and the rustling of newspapers in the street
I hear it when my feet are pressed to the hull and my lips are pursed to the sea, as the wind rushes past plaits of hair long undone
I hear it in worn-through pointe shoes when their ribbons are snipped
I hear it under orphanage awnings late at night and near buckets of washerwomen when they dump out the muck
I hear them around every corner and beneath every tree
Wrapping 'round every rope swing and whistling through every cigar
They echo like masts and arms and dolls hitting the seafloor, like things sleeping in train tunnels where only trains should be asleep
I hear her in the shutters of dusty cameras and the sound of strawberry ice cream hitting boardwalk sand and
The only time I can't hear her
Is when I'm fast asleep