In the century of noise,
at a late age,
I discover silence,
swinging, like a scythe,
through the clangor.
Of course, I still hear
the ringing in my ears,
ghost waves from the cherry bomb
or perhaps passed on
from my father. Perhaps
the reverberation
of the Bofors guns bursting
in the tattered sky
over Naples in 1943 or
the blood pounding
as he pulled up after
diving 10,000 feet.
Or my ear drum might
be still vibrating from
the back beat on
“Johnny B. Goode”
late at night
on my bedside
radio in 1958.
My phone beeps, alerting me
that something has happened
in Syria, someone’s dog
can sing “Over the Rainbow,”
the Braves’ bullpen has
collapsed again.
Everything is ringing,
ringing; everything has
a buzz. I discover
silence, the scythe,
leaving me wide-eyed,
breathing, listening
to my heart pump.