Troy Jollimore


Always, in that season, came the point in the day
when our conversations faltered, the celestial musicians 
took a break between sets, and all the little engines
we had so painstakingly gathered and constructed 
lapsed into stillness for a few brief moments, 
and around us—for nature will not tolerate a vacuum—
rising like a swarm of black flies from the neglected fields
and scattered pools of stagnant water there arose the sound
that filled our atmosphere like the drone of some far-off
crop-duster, like a universal headache, like the decrescendo 
moan of a piano that has fallen to the street
from some high apartment window and smashed like a body. 
We pretended that none of us could hear it, which is what 
humans do, and retreated like monks, each into his own
private interior garden, the gate 
of the eye glazed over and locked shut. We knew 
that it would pass (though we knew, too, that the day would come
when it would not pass), we knew that for the moment
there were comforts, crossword puzzles, board games to be played,
tea waiting at home to be poured into bright blue 
porcelain cups, giving off a small puffy 
steam-exhalation like a sigh of satisfaction.
These were promised to us. And the rest of what life promised,
we simply would not speak of. But we never stopped hearing it
entirely, that groan, as of a vast but collapsing heart.
That distant roar, that might have been the planet’s great slow turning.
That distant roar, that might have been the planet’s great slow burning.