The Sound of Things

I hear sounds
Trapped in the walls,
Soft and high-pitched
Like tiny sirens
The stirrings and strainings
Of an aging house.
Sometimes I fear they’re
Coming from inside me,
The creaking of bones and organs,
The groan of pulpy, greying matter.
Sometimes the sounds are operatic,
Almost Wagnerian,
And I wonder whether
Old houses always sing in A-flat,
Whether new houses sing at all,
And whether this is perfect pitch,
Or its opposite.
My dog doesn’t hear the sounds–
These creatures of
Pipes and hollow spaces
Whom I knew as children
(Cousins of witches underneath my bed)
With their terrible faces
Pock-marked by Drano,
Rising up again like intestinal flu
From the sewers beneath.