The Confession

In the silence of this house
there is a frequency humming,
needle sharp. Piercing
electric madness, it sings
from

where?

The refrigerator?
The air conditioner?
The morning stars of all
the universes shining
through these walls?
This mole has tunneled
somewhere past my brain
every morning for three years–
these bone-dry mornings.
There are days, I confess,
I miss the dull thud
of drunk veins throbbing

in my ears.

***TINY LETTER***

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