This, Too

 THIS, TOO

Before I purchased—on a whim—

the windchimes, I swear the front porches 

were bare, my drive past the neighor-

hood hushed in the solemn seriousness

of itself, and then suddenly there 

they were, where they’d always been,

on every third house, their notes slow-

dripping in each hollow of air. To think

I’ve had chime-shaped cataracts 

these many years. To think of the sheer 

volume of other shadowed singularities  

latticing the light of our days, waiting 

for a wind, a word, to lift them like a scalpel 

into a tone—once heard—you can’t unhear.