replaying

by mistersoto

two minutes ago
memory slipt
out of the fingers of his thoughts
replayings
in evenings he sits
and listens
“to his ancient sounds”
of door slam
and t.v applause
a baby crying
and conversation passing
distilling him
until silence slabbing
a glacier over them
and from this
the muted slip
of the heart’s
birdsong

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