The ceiling fan is deafening
and my vision is as unfocused as your appeal
both spearing forward in fierce concentration
only to phase into vagueness, midway to their destination

As you continue to speak
my eyes continue to blur the scene
and I hear a series of moods, rather than words:

Anger... Anger... Injury.
Injustice, Pleading.
Righteousness. Vulnerab-- Demanding.
Reason... Reason... Reasoning.

I sit this way, fuzzing out your face
and decide it's effective, attending to your aura
selfishly shielding myself from the specificity of your language

but listening, intently listening, to your atmosphere

ringing out against the drone of that **** incessant ceiling fan.