The muffled cadence of your voice
as you talk on the phone
filters down from the attic
through my bedroom ceiling.
Not words, but sometimes cooing
and sometimes an earnest crescendo
resonates in the long tunnel
night stretches from sundown to dawn.
No tires whine in the street.
No engine drones in the sky.
Late at night the house is silent
except for your father's soft
breathing in and out beside me
and the comforting sound of you
still perched beneath the eaves.
from When the Light Falls Short of the Dream
(1998); reprinted in
Make Your Way Across This Bridge: New & Selected Writings