In the Sense of Hearing

You said you heard
God's mouth move
without speaking;

in all of my life,
I've not known
a mute-swan to sing

or my good father cry.

Here, in the white,
we heal hours
we've wounded like

roads of the city,
salt between stars,
seams of the cloth.

And filled with
regret for the beauty
of sound, the silence

incessantly burning
the ear of our scars.

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