The good news is, his tinnitus
lived on. When that day came,
it hovered above his urn and

the white lilies his sister brought to
the funeral—like an invisible bee.
Visitors in their woeful clothes

huddled by the claret drapes and heard
nothing. But it was there. Unflinching,
standing watch. The only part of him

death left unchanged. But did he ever
actually listen to it? Did he hear how
it labored in his inmost parts, his

self’s self? Notice how it stayed up
late to hiss in his ear when the day’s
grating noise was gone? Yet when

his snoring finally ceased, it still whispered
in its strange wordless tongue, steadfast as
a mother’s love, content to have him, at last.