The noise is always just a thought away,
one wrong turning of the mind. I hear the cries
(they’re mine) at the foot of a stair,
the end of a supermarket aisle,
and then it washes over in a tide of loss. All
gives way to chaos, or to what is always there:
that locked-out self that treads its mill of grief
waiting for his dying to die down.
heavenfaced 