What I miss

is some hexagonal white seal
like a honeycell.
Silence I miss;
the hand on the fiddle
muting the vaulted arrogance
it raises;
the crowded hush
of the conductor's lifted wand,
then the chorale
walking with little empty breaths
through air it praises.

My air is noises
amplified by an ugly pink
barnacle in my ear.
All the music I hear
is a tide dragging pebbles
to and away in my brain.
Sphered, the harmonies fall,
mutate, abort. Emptiness
is like rain
in my insomniac city,
ceaseless and merciless.

For Elon Salmon