One cannot mute the imagined sound
that like a homeless echo settles in
where it is most unwelcome.
The caterwaul
of new abandonment
shrieks its chalky name
at a dusty, distant moon.
I mark the time by nameless infants
weeping next to patriarchs
a dark unwatered end.
yet my bed is still as soft
as baby hands
my room as quiet as
an empty nursery
only my head is
too loud.
