Coats whisper in the closet,
reminding me that I am sheepish
about perpetual rifts, yet every hour
I mumble riot. Instead of speaking,
I stare daily at the slow decay
of dovetail joints on an old cedar chest,
its splits like canyons in the wood,
but there is no echo. Where is my voice?

And who hears my oaths sworn against reality,
my defense of truth a frayed wire, loose tether?