Photo by Rob LindquistTommy Rawson. I don’t hear any more. I listen, but I don’t hear the stories From childhood. I have taken on the mien Of an adult listener, Looking like I actually hear What I’m listening to. But, awareness has fled; Turned down to the faintest glimmer. Awareness flickers only when boredom Threatens to offend others. I can’t hear as a child hears, Turning my head, looking about in wonder; Sniffing, scratching, shuffling about. I must sit still, look attentive, and listen. So I no longer see the grand pictures As I saw them once When the earth stood closer to me. They no longer reflect Fascination that, flame-like,
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