I find myself
more talkative
these days,
less listener
and more
lister, my
words a
languid
letting go,
spilling like
rainwater,
composing
a line before
the previous
one has
finished,
images coming
and going
in fleeting
motions;
poetry is
a language
I must relearn
since the words no
longer stay close
to my chest.

But when
I am quiet
I notice
certain
things:
the silence
of our home
at night,
the stillness
of breathe
between us,
the cat
scratches
between walls
and out of tune
Elvis sang through
shaky breath
as a tactic
to calm the nerves,
because the fear
never leaves,
no matter
how hard I try
to outrun it
or stare it
in the eye,
finding a
frighting
comfort
in the
familiar.