Kathryn Hindenlang

UNTIL YOU CAN NO LONGER HEAR IT
 

The safe-kept jars of sound
in your mind are collapsing.
Where in the voiced-over morning
are you? Shhh-ing up old bites
on shuffle, that soundtrack unsure
of itself comes around early and gives
up the day, unplayed version of whatever
dream there is stowed in your (f)ears—
many—streams you through words
get choked on here. In loops, hours
you’ve got a track to skip.
These words are so nearly
your face: their shape clear,
never, and gone. Cue the grass.
Cue yesterday. Jump to dew-laced
blades. That little round song
you’ve been dragging behind you,
tripping over small stones and
catching in mud is not mine. I am quiet.
I slip through your fingers like sand
wholeness living in the runoff,
lyrics tangled to renew that tune,
to toggle back and forth.
Our thoughts disperse like breath
and stillness is the move. 

                                    
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