Acoustic Insulation

The neighbor's porch light gave a final, yellow blink

then quit. It’s better this way, I think.

The blackness is more honest when the sky is white,

filling up the hollow spaces of the night.

It’s a silence that isn't empty—it’s a weight,

a soft, suffocating hand on the garden gate.

Snow landing on snow, no sound of the hit,

just a thickening of the world, bit by bit.

I’m at the window, hearing my own blood hum,

a frantic little motor. The world has gone numb

except for the telephone line, sagging low,

under the heavy, velvet velvet of the snow.