A Ruptured Eardrum

Brent Pallas

A little poke
and what would I miss? Some higher decibel
that flicks only a dog's ears. Light will lead the way
to the soft neighing in the dusk. I never heard it
anyway, every crevice brimming
with distraction. That little tap that says,
you're here, that's enough, you can stop now.
Someone else will hear the other side of things,
the bee in its buttercup, the wind unraveling
every leaf off its bough. All the elementary particles
that creak in their machines, eyes that flare
in the dark waiting to be heard, a wheeze
down a darkened hall. Rummaging around
for some higher key to lift
the soprano from her seat.
This object so irretrievably split, an abscence
I can never hold or let go of, a wailing alarm
that wakes the whole neighborhood like ice water
on the skin. A little note of sarcasm, a sigh
of regret for all those things better left unsaid,
some hymn of breathlessness
that has reached the other shore.