As I lie I hear them:
beats passing from my left ear
to the right, creating echoes in between.
They oddly remind me of footsteps on rickety
floorboards and loud punches
on typewriter keys. Every creak and crack
and pound and clank are fingers tapping
my fissured memories.
I know these sounds
like I have been intimately
connected to them, somehow, somewhere
their pulse once synchronized
with mine.
But remembering is like trying
to touch sound itself—
impossible, frustrating.
So I just continue listening
quietly submitting myself to those placating beats
allowing myself to imitate their rhythm
through the rise and fall
of my
chest.
Montage Vol. 9 • February 2006
