I can hear it in the
Atonal scraping of my chair
Across the scuffed linoleum
In the cessant whirring of the fridge
And the dull hum of the fan
Familiar sounds
I have heard a thousand times before
They are nothing in themselves
Not happy or sad
Only known
And yet it is the same with your voice
Creeping out from under a prenumbral
A shy beam of light
I recognize its form
Though it is nothing in itself
Not happy or sad
Only known
A familiar sound

*And yet I do not know you.