Paul Hlava

Clatter like seeds dropped by a storm.
Had there always been a door
between these two rooms?

When I closed my eyes, I heard
a trickle from the open tap.
A river flooded tables and chairs.

I whispered and it disappeared.
Then, rain.
Fish which leapt so high they sprouted wings.

The waves reflected stars
illuminating waves.
When I speak I erase

what's around me. When I listen
I leave space for not me
to grow. Gloria sunk a shovel

above the underground reservoir.
Water was in the wooden bucket,
wooden bucket in the well.

Sometimes I must make room to hear again.
Droplets form lush jungles.
I press my ear to that resonant hush.