thunks

i try not to let you hear it. it being: thunks.

the sputtering tension of a wire, vibrating.

a trapped mosquito in the middle of the night.

you know, i saw them all winter. it's too warm.

another bad sign welcoming me home.

i can't tame the loudnesses but i try to keep

them, mine, out of earshot. not buried, just

muted. a palm against the strings. it becomes

• thunk* after *thunk*. it's like hiding a

fart with a cough. it usually doesn't work.

even though i am trying to keep these thunks

mine they carry over. when we are together

you feel my joints and stare at my face. you

know the rhythm better than i do, sometimes:

you find a gentle syncopation to answer back.

when we are apart the thunks spill over into

the mail. i guess it's like i have written

new songs that i can't wait to play you. but

rather there's a thunk of the heart knuckle

and breath. my handwriting stays shaky.

i'm embarrassed. these are not your thunks.

keeping them all to myself seems wrong. maybe

i'm too selfish. maybe you like the rhythms

and maybe you want to hear the songs when

they're still a pile of unpolished thunks.

the thunks are there for a reason. perhaps

they need to be heard. they smooth out over

time, i think. someone said: these letters

are a pulse. you like to feel the thunk in

my chest. the thunks keep time for this life.

note: work in progress
lastmod: 2025-03-23

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