The sound of you reading.
A whisper every eight minutes.
Sound of you sucking your teeth.
Deep breath unsettling your chair.
The nail of your index finger against
the grain of your blue corduroy slacks.
Like an instrument.
The sound of your scanning eyes.
Your motionless mouth.
Your cheek
lit up with light reflected off the pages.
All dark now
and quiet. The books all burnt up and you
along with them. The curtains
and the kitchen counter,
quiet.
The floors even.
The faucet
and the rhythm of your toothbrush
against your teeth,
quiet.
