Writing, Beneath the Window of my Kitchen

Above: someone tortures a piano, trying to get it to sing. Outside: the mingled chirping of children and birds. A passing bus rattles the house. Within, a clock ticks towards oblivion. My cat’s tongue slips against her fur, and The refrigerator exhales constantly. There are moments of stillness When I can imagine The sounds that remain Are no more than water in my ears. That maybe the whole kitchen has filled up— The tap left running or a pipe sprung— And I rest at the bottom of a bright pool, Seated at the sunken pier of my table, Soaked in the window’s tidal light. The pages of my books wave open lazily like flaps of kelp. My pen drifts slow and heavy across the page, Somewhere causing a current And on some distant surface, a ripple.

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