The workers hum to wile away

the afternoon and tenants chide

their sons to sweep from room to room

last night's dust motes — stirred dreams

entangled in wide streaks of light 
that, in the daytime, bloom,

unsparing, bright — like operatic

high notes. Pierced and round,

the clouds of sleep fill us with

sound. A loss. A tune so deep within 
the brain we cannot help but weep

as sons push brushes past door after door

locked tight like eyes and tombs.

Our quiet. Our heavy score.
Oliver de la Paz is our Poet in Residence for May. Previously: Diaspora Sonnet I, Prince Credo, Story Problem #2, and Story Problem #3. See, also, our interview with Oliver.