No one knew when it had arrived, but there it was.
Perhaps it had begun to grow during
the diminishment of that other thing we’d known,
the loss of which we felt but hadn’t yet noticed.
It was like we’d just woken up to it.
You had your ideas about it, I had mine.
It bore next to nothing of faith, knowledge, being.
Of that much we at least saw eye to eye.
How can I best describe what I thought it might be?
A vast, primordial schwa – soupy, deep and bland –
indicating no more than sound itself.
Had it come through the front door, or down the chimney?
Maybe in through the window while we were sleeping?
Or simply as all the other things had,
stepping right out of spaces that filled up the day?
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