Everything significant makes

Its own noise:

Tires scrape along, mowers buzz,

Flies hum; there is talk in

The outer room.


I lay quietly closing my eyes

On what I have always known,

As life continues.

The dead cannot hear—but I can;

Life drones about me

As I lay dying.


Each has its own time to live, tho'

Each flux of the world—

A ghastly turn—

But when I close them once more,

It'll be on sounds I've always known

With spans not yet done.