soft notes tumble and
sirens wail, making the
sandpaper in my throat
quiver.

it’s a queasy way to
not say anything at all,
but anticipate another
sound about to fall.

does breath fill emptiness
or crawl into corners
that would otherwise
be less significant, less
clean and ordered?

closed fists, pressed
firmly into the ground.
sandpaper losing, its
grains unbound.