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B. H. BOSTON
Tinnitus
Seated at the desk again today, resolute, clenched
with longing for the consonants and dark vowels
swelling beneath the high pitched field of my distraction,
the spurt of words welling up from beyond silence—
my medicated dreams are smooth and flat as video,
nothing to terrify or sustain, no prophecy at waking,
nothing to remember or forget, no start on the pillow
each morning, parched lips drawn around irretrievable darkness.
With the fan on at noon, the page blurred by tranquilizers
and fifty faithless years—"You pay for the bad days,"
P. says—
I yawn, dreaming of Marsha's return around three,
our walk through the little park together, our cautious
meal of lettuce and seared salmon, baked yams, and later
her voice a low candle sanctifying everything, her
cool hand, nothing on TV, another tablet, and sleep. 
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