Noise Collector

 

There is always a cry when cars groan by

a storm of words that seize the air,

from every upset a deafening roar

a surge of pain, or a pile of crushed lives.

 

Carry them to me.

 

On a busy street, there are empty cans

that stalk the ground with chaotic clangs,

a hanging sign that thumps the post,

abandoned papers, that won’t stop flapping.

 

Carry them to me.

 

I’ll hold these sounds inside my hands

teach them to listen and lie them still,

they won’t jar thoughts, or turn them sour,

will rest with me here under subdued hours.

 

I can make silence.