things spring,
not hope--hope is no thing I know
beds spring, when voices rise
you to the door now to half light the hall
doors spring
and hold in place the small crack
you've framed
to muffle the giggles
lifting the bed.
sounds spill,
like achey cups in jittery hands.
you with your cocaine eyes
and sweaty pause
and me,
drunk on valentine wine, sizing up the hallway
alone in ambition.
but there's no fixing it,
the thing itself.
the thing that makes me safe,
fort made of rabbits' feet and graying pillows,
thing that makes me less only,
but ever more lonely.
Thing springing
and hoping to god I'll hear.
Sober sounds for drowning ears
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