A Wrong Turn

Cry

You hear them differently, my words

That so often now silt my mouth and choke breath.

Their pulse, or thud, hammers painfully and you

Plead silently for me to know quiet,

Know the soothing worth of soaking silence.

My wail is blind, unhearing, a broken howl

Of hunted boar, of Ginsberg, of dying bull,

Of Neruda and the Hunter of the East, and I

Scream psalms of want and longing, begging

Even now your frozen, wordless walls to fall.

Our sobs subside with sleep, the gasped shudder

Of the shadow of days buried by paling dreams.

We know still the arms of unconsciousness

Bear a healing absence of sound, of tears,

That bids love rest and wake refreshed –

Restored.