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Didn't Hear a Thing 
Stop listening. You've done that.
Put down the voice.
Let what you're carrying bounce down the stairs,
three or four flights.
Obey the hint by covering your hand with a yawn,
full-on, fearful, heaping.
You've done that. Now it's time to leave the pieces
in their dramatic positions
to face the snow. Whatever you've been
looking forward to, the sun is around it
somewhat similar, you can taste it
for days after it's walked across your table.
The crumb sharp, the sea flat, spinnaker bellying.
You don't need to anymore. Even that habit
out. You can spit. You can extrude it
as a pretty ribbon, shiny on a side. There
are a million cans to open one by one,
breath to let in. You can walk, mister.
Or sit. No need to answer. No calls
from the little brown jobs, each to bush,
ache to bud, cracked lip. Didn't hear a thing
or see it.
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