I have heard no silence in years,
not true silence,
not the velvet black silk
worn by night asleep in the mountains,
not the soft silver song of singing stars.
My bloodhound ears search for silence.
I pick up the scent of an audio graffiti artist
who commits acoustic crimes,
noise sprayed in public places.
In the office,
electric humming,
21st century soft sizzling silence,
white noise,
vibrations
even Beethoven or Helen Keller
or the stone heads on Mount Rushmore
could hear.
Sound enwraps me,
a damp wool sweater
I cannot lift off,
a shirt of fleas
I cannot unbutton and remove.
2014