left him. He became heartless.
And that was enough
to learn how to stand outside the clamor and bustle
on the other side of a wall. I’ve never owned a sound.
I speak a name and the name is gone. Amnesia
might take this form—the soft tone of some man
seducing a woman is a murmur, a dog barking
to be let out or in only clamor, only noise gathering
and clinging to the walls on the other side. The world
keeps from some even the words on the page,
mute. When some rooms are demolished
their walls must finally give back a bit of beating
sound. Say one of those neighbors stopped
near there with his new wife, called up the child
he once was to show her how far his arm could throw
a rock, hit a sign or maybe the passing train. The train
may have blown its horn and the silence leached out
of the stone ping. The silence was then great between
the horn and his woman, and he needed to throw it away.
The stone hit the train, bounded back and she began
to speak. The train was quiet and stopped in the middle
of this vast flat, engines idling down to thin humming.
And from some shoulder stones in the road, bordered
by lanky grasses and loam that silence sifts up to a passing
car, through the seat, through the conversation suddenly
paused. No one will be satisfied with how this ends.
Because stories have an ending here; inside space
even a conversation can lose its way. A couple can fall
asleep angry, both certain the other stopped speaking first.
Neither consider the stone. And the stone sits untouched
in a cage of stars, a cage the night presses down
over the grass, and the voice of everything passing
by is swallowed up, until it isn’t.
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