Sound Has a Finite Life

The telephone in my girlfriend’s apartment

in 1982 is still ringing, unanswered,

breaking the laws of physics.

The thudding echo in my heart sinks

deeper and deeper as I keep hearing

my father tell me transcontinentally

of an accident involving my brother.

The sonic boom and WIXY 1260

announced the age of nuclear propulsion

and I’m still twitching to those sweet threats.

And the snow, always falling, always melting.

Snow and silence always go together,

as if we’re straining to hear something – 

what did you say?

We like to think the saxophone solos

of Charlie Parker and John Coltrane

have traveled unimpeded through

an open door or kitchen vent and into

space where they will enter the galaxy

of Alpha Centauri in 25,000 years,

proving to the universe that we

have redeeming qualities.

In reality…

The bowling ball explodes the pins,

the angry words bury themselves

with their target,

the arguments are white noise

self-cancelling,

the sound of things unsaid,

the sound of absence I think

is Bb minor,

melancholy is a major seventh

and we can only really dance

to songs in a minor key.

Are you still listening to me?

I don’t know what happens when I stop.

Sound has a finite life and

I’m afraid I’m not reaching you.