White Noise
July 17 2016


The generator’s been running for hours, now.

Its cacophonous start,
pistons firing, turbine grinding
that high-pitched rattling sound.
And then the comforting rumble
the steady hum.
Like white noise
you only hear when it’s gone,
suddenly loud
in the heavy silence.

Because the ear accommodates.
Like the seat I no longer feel.
Like the pain that recedes.
Like the loss I refuse to honour,
unconsciously gnawing
away at my gut.
Because you do what you must.
Because denial
has much to be said for it.

When the power went
the peace hit unexpectedly;
absence
dropping like a dead-weight.
So I was almost resentful
when it so urgently kicked in.
As if the machine mirrored our need
to fill the emptiness;
our aversion to quiet
our fear of  the void.

Now I have light, and noise
and every convenience
of modern living.
While outside, it’s too noisy to talk.
Internal combustion
fouling the air,
as shuttered slats
vent waves of heat,
water-drops dance on its steel.

But I think of the silence I’m missing.
And wonder
if I’d stop hearing that, as well;
the racing thoughts, the monkey brain
that fill my space with chatter
no matter what.

Or would I luxuriate
in the quiet I’ve always craved;
the dark stillness,
the measureless wait?