Repetition builds a past as if part of you began here,
			    as if where you’ve come back to is where you’re from.
Familiar sounds like what you heard again yesterday
			    or a single sound that woke you fifty years ago—
a door opening to let in a voice, an urgent whisper,
			    a quick intake of breath, then quiet.
Just a door, the creak of a metal knob jiggled
			    against a screw working its way out
that woke you then, and now—when you’re awakened
			    by that sound—you stay alert:
what you hear next may tell of someone’s life,
			    not necessarily another message about death.

 
				 
				 
				 
				 
				





