Crumpled up into cotton balls, the city’s sounds
Quiver like cooked meat in the bedside trash can.
The stab of silence, the sweet pain of silence’s bite.
When silence often calls from afar in the dead of nights
Or through the din of the day, the cotton balls just give in
To the harpoon’s thrust and the line’s tense smart,
And the poor cripple leaps off the exploding window
On a long fall to love, a bodily answer to love’s call.