That sound,
that hypnosis, that liberty,
simultaneous, stabilized, sacred.
Somewhere in my head,
fingernails spur into hooves,
from a sprint to a canter,
running like the beast
that bestows their borrowed breath.

These sounds,
of Death’s encroaching promise,
of Life’s entangled loom,
of Love’s predestined losing,
and Losing’s fated song.
It’s all those things
that smother sensibility,
under stamping sorrow’s stroll.

This sound.
Each click a brick.
Each clack a plaque.
This builder,
breaker,
bonder,
blunder.
This world-warping wrangler.

Those sounds,
early morning echoes,
draped in late night garb.
Stars spark sounds overheard,
or perhaps those are rodents
who race around the hollows;
those mangy ancestors scuttering
above the antique plaster ceiling.

It’s surely the lonelinesses.
Those willowing lonlinesses.
Those lonely,
wallowing
lonelinesses.