Profundity

The foamy surf

curls at the edge of waves,

and sunlight pipes up

in golden strains.

I am afraid of the silence,

and I fill it with sound,

with the inching caress

of his paws,

with the music

raucous and speaker-driven.

No inner musics

will disturb the tended racket,

careful not to disrupt

my hieratic spellings

of her name.

The rub, then,

was the tendency towards silence,

the hunger for aloneness

in a filling void.

He emanates from my corridors,

with rustlings

and flinchings,

as I stretch my hand

to feel the tendons writhe.

My wrist is a little blue line,

wriggling beneath the pen

with hints

of white, fibrous tissue.

Hunt me,

feed me.

She is near,

and her silence

is surveyed

for signs of life.

I welcome the lack,

but not the price.