Listen
If it's real it has its own music
almost as solid as itself:
the cracking of sticks across your knee,
the swish of leaves, the warm call
of a cardinal in spring,
and the creak of this old chair,
as solid as a hundred years, or
the stroke and scratch of pen on paper.
I can close my eyes and I feel
the echoes of fingers forming chords
on guitar strings, of other fingers
pulling in plucked patterns, and the hum
that fills the hollow belly. And at night,
your heartbeat stomping beneath
your skin, the intake of your breath,
the clock's rhythm stepping, always,
like someone in another room.
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