tinge

silence reigns oppressively when you are gone.

and yet, to silence this cannot compare.

i don't know silence--not at all--

my ears ring always with the sibilance that's 

          hanging in the air:

the sound of what i feel, and what i 

          know, and feel i know;

the sound of cicadas humming on a summer night

a muggy, sleepless sort of summer night

a cloudy summer night

devoid of stars