"in the shape of hurnmingbirds"
the old woman who lives
next to me collects
wind-chimes with her pension
and hangs them from silver hooks
on her patio.
their stained-glass casts strange
colours on the sidewalk and
they rattle together
during wind storms like
hollow bones making music.
i imagine the inside of her house
a prism split open and spilled,
the sofa rippled by blues and greens
as the sun refracts off the chimes
and bursts through the windows.
i'm kept awake, sometimes,
by the sound of them
throwing themselves against
one another as if frenzied,
needing to unravel that silence,
to fill the night with their uneasy noise
~ Chelsea Comeau