Tinnitus

There is no such thing as silence.

On a good day, a gentle necklace
Of the tiniest silver beads
Sings in the back of the head, unobtrusive —
A light, unspiteful lullaby
Allowing the drift to sleep.

On a bad night the pressure builds
Through nape and ears and cranium,
Insistent alarm swelling, sinking,
Cascading minuscule ball bearings pressing
And piccolo whistles steadily rising.

An evening of coffee or red wine or both
Brings brasher, bullying, pulsing bells,
Still pitched past pitch of normal speech,
Seeming soft, but swelling with
An ocean's weight of shingled tides.


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