To be heard

like a child with tweezers -
  picking, plucking the seams -
clumsily jabbing at the stitches
  with a blunt needle, trying
to create that frayed effect -
  that gap in the fabric,
that lull in the sentence into
  which i could slot my words
like spare change down a well
  where rusty carcasses lie still,
barely polluting the water -
  in hopes of finding a fault,
freshly sprung, within that
  stagnant, unfading fullness
in which the world rests
  untouched

But something

something died in me
             yesterday

                     (and the day before)
and what it was
    before it died
      i cannot be sure