Sampson
amidst the humming of my pc
the clattering of my keyboard
my erratic sighing
this regina spektor song
keeps looping softer and softer
as if when I can’t hear it any more
the pain will be gone
I’m no fool to believe that of course
but fool enough to test it
old tricks are dirty tricks
but the smaller the gap
the softer the hair and scissors and
columns and stars and
all that
jazz
the louder the silence of course
literally, as it were
each time I go through the ritual
of gently, like an old lover
touching the volume knob
each time a tram passes
and covers up this or that
part of the refrain
or that old light of the couplet
literally the silence lashes louder
and louder
at my side
its vicious claws searching
for the gold sovereigns
sewn under my last floating rib
each time a little more frustrated
and I relish it
because the void there
needs to be sung through these little tears
these little deaths
needs me to caress the confirmation of my fears
like an old lover with
such a weary
wavering deft hand
rough of skin
soft of touch
a smile sown with sorrow
and reaped in humble simplicity
as only the foolish wise can muster–
that at least we may yet attain
my poor, poor yorick
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