Sounding Sleep

He takes out his
robot ears at night,
and cannot hear
the sounds of the house;
soft cracks, groans
of pleasure as it
settles into the heavy winter earth.
Cannot hear
the sound of books,
rustling pages, weight and depth
lying all on their sides, in strata,
cover touching cover, like old friends,
whispering
of stories, of time and whimsy, mystery;
thoughts strewn out with pens
held by hands
living, and long-gone. 

And I, with my scarred drums
listen;
shattering booms of
mice quick-stepping inside my walls,
trees tapping rhythms against each other
accompanied by waves of air,
hum and moan of machinery,
gurgling water wandering through
lonely pipes in the basement below;
I with my scarred drums,
sit staring into the clamorous darkness,
hear the fog creeping in gently
between the trees,
sleepy browsing of deer, teeth
rasping against the bright cherry bark,
and envy
deafened sleep. 

12 January 2013
~K. Wolf, for L. Bosworth



Points of reference:

This was written following a visit to the home of my new friend, Lewis, who wears hearing aids.  He is a bibliophile--a biblioholic, in fact, with a home full of books.  Full.  Truly. 

Throughout my childhood, I had ear infections that ruptured my eardrum several times a year.  Nothing remains of the original eardrums; however, because loud noises have always been painful, I've protected my hearing more than most people do.  Now that the ear infections have stopped, I hear everything.