How quiet is Hell—how it unnerves you.
Usually, panic throttles you
awake but today you wake up feeling.
You do not expect gentleness—you expect birds
beating themselves blind against windows,
no mouths. Driven mad sex or sex
or Xanax, or love he tells you there is worth
in not feeling normal all the time.
Everything is yours for a while. Today
the neighbors are good neighbors.
Hell on a quiet day
is still Hell.
What is there left to fear?
You are prepared for the end of restfulness:
birds waiting on the down power lines,
birds on blown out chimneys, silent
opera of canaries—the birds always know first—
birds everywhere,
birds everywhere now.
