The Reason (Poetry)

His hand’s the one makes all things numb —
his touch strips out the nerve
from beneath each living skin
denies the thin-edged voice — decrees
the heart’s forever dumb
and beatless in its dying room.

That echo chamber empty — not one pin
to drop and cause its tiny resonance
to carry on some breeze —
find an ear to harken — know that sound
from memory — feel it tremble long ago
kept clearly vaulted safe — far underground.

Sensations slow like tired mantel clocks
running down — the oil grown thick as blood
the caller knocks but rarely knows the time
for telling it can seldom be much good
and counting out the minutes in a string
cannot explain the reason for
                                loss of life or loving anything.