are not to be heard here, inside

nor what is nuzzled in the dark night,

what is touched with whiskers or tongues

curiously is not given to me to know,

whereas the sound of dust settling in halls

is not audible, but I hear the clamor

of its abrupt stillness speaking to me

over the cadence of sleeping dog’s breath,

as the deafening rustle of a tuft of pet dander

like tumbleweed speeding across a desert

chased by cold air in front of a thunderstorm,

nothing else moves, except a torrent of rain

the eaves spill a metronome of water drops,

tears fall in time, salting a tell-tale heart

that beats beneath my floor speaking of murder,

a metaphor for what cannot be put to rest,

the ache of dreams, the innocence I have dismembered,

thunder rumbles until its distant weeping cracks my

ears open, wide awake, a sudden strobe of lightning flashes

into eyes glistening with a chiarascuro of shadow and illumination