Will the timer shut itself off, I wonder,
there in the other room

As I think about it, it seems to stop,
more concealed – in the nooks and crannies,
the rhythm of my thought – than silenced
to my ear

Am I breathing, I speak aloud,
I there in that other time

As I slow down, I seem to float,
more free – in the loosening of my ties,
my willingness to untether – than I have
ever been

The timer does not cease its incessant
bleeting as my heart does not give up
its ever-diminishing beat

Someday the power will go out
and in that absence will remain
the question: is there life
where there is no sound?

Chagall 2020