Time To Hear Ourselves Think

We've missed that for years, not so much

The thinking itself-that goes on regardless -

But the hearing of it, small waterwheels

Turning in millponds, the press and hiss

Of steam irons in storefront laundry shops,

Gears changing, the tick in the clock

Hopping upstairs. It's as if,

In muffled slow motion, through shock and

aftershock,

We kept feeling with our hands-all thought

Outside ourselves, all concepts

Those railroad stations we were always leaving,

Elevators, the courthouse steps

Hurrying toward collapse. But now that we have

Stolen this time, I'm beginning

To hear numbers-I swear it-

Little formations of numbers gathering

Strength as their flanks swing east, and pigeons

Cooing in bank alcoves, and my own

Pencil tapping, ears popping, the spitting sound

Made when tires roll over tiny stones

And it's almost frightening to think

Of what was going on, how much lies there

Scattered, or wounded, or dead

In ourselves that we could not hear.