Why is it that no one notices the river
until it stops running?
It is the silence of the clock that
catches our ear,
and the moon eclipsed is of greater note
than the one that shines in our darkened windows
every night.

The sun is forgotten
like all things expected
until dim, clouded winter
when it is missed like a lover,
like all things reliable 

cursed.

Noise only becomes music
when there are pauses between,
joy to be found in absence,
presence no appreciable gift.
No one is grateful for breathing
the in
the out
the in
the out
except for those who have nearly drowned
but I should be the only one
who takes my heartbeat
for granted.

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