I am a guest in the house of a man hard of hearing.
He suffers for it, but it’s the inaccuracy
That causes him difficulties, that places
His intensely social nature under stress.
There’s plenty of buzzing, he says, in his head.
Profound silence, is it worse? I expect not.
No one ever referred to my multiply broken
Frame as “profoundly” twisted. No one refers
To the wholly sightless as “profoundly” blind.
Maybe there’s a depth to the silence of the deaf
That has nothing to do with a sensory lack.
I would not lightly give up music, but there are
Times when turning even the best of it off
Shapes a relief. Even the more quiet world
Underneath has been so distorted by sound,
True silence is a fossil for reconstruction.
Alone with the mild hiss of tinnitus in my head,
The soft chuntering engines of the home’s
Central heat and its sisyphean opponent,
The fridge, the occasional rumble of a truck
Down the street, drone of a jet somewhere,
Hum of the distant interstate, hoot of a train
Hauling freight, indeterminate clicks and sighs
Of an old house adjusting itself in winter sun,
I am not profound. I am hunkered down
Over the remains of silence with the overlay
Of louder noises removed, bemused.
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