Sounds That Have No Name

Sounds That Have No Name



There should be a name for certain sounds.


The sound a map makes when you roll it up.

The sound of a promise unkept.


The sound a smile makes when it widens.

The sound a memory makes when it fades.


The sound of hope, evaporating.


Or the sound of the quickening I feel

When your eyes spill into mine.

When the world folds inward and there is only you, anymore.


Or the sound of a half-empty bed.


The different kind of sound a door makes

The last time you close it.


The sound of bridges burning.


.         .         .


There should also be a name for certain silences.


The silence resting in the revolver’s empty chamber.

The silence of the knife when it’s still in the drawer.


The silence of large stones and certain lichen.

The silence of the last piece of tape when it comes off the spool.


The silence of silence waiting to be noticed.

The silence of all the questions unasked.



The silence the door makes

When it has closed.

For the very




After the bridges have burned.



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