The sound of Krakatoe’s destruction was recorded
three thousand miles away.
Now – two hundred years later,
the echo of that explosion dances
with the fly head-banging the ceiling.

Here in the box of night
when silence should lower sleep’s lid,
are amplifications of the body –
the soft shoe of the heart –
river-like waltzing of blood in the veins –
nasal cavity mucus dripping.

If I was Van Goghed twice,
I wouldn’t have the ears
for the roar of the world’s leaky faucets.
But even then –
inner rats in inner walls
would continue to scratch.

At sunset, sound cemented its dancing partner
in a crypt concealed in the cellar.
Even John Cage can’t lead me to
four minutes and thirty-three seconds
of silence.