Ear

You dig in your ear, that fertile soil
where the best of you is sown.

The sense you cannot close, the door
without a hinge to your brain, hangs

open, receiving barks, cries, sirens,
laughter, rain, birdsong; the list goes on

unceasing, like a prayer, but to
whom, you can’t be sure. Not to you,

you’re only a passer-by, a dropper
of eaves. You’re only here to filter,

like a sponge, from the noise-driven
universe a song, a hint of meaning.

Sometimes you think white noise is beautiful.
Sometimes you want to bury yourself in dirt

and listen to the worms move through it, and
eventually you. To hear silence at last.