My favorite sounds:

The clapping together of the halves
of an open book
because I realize
that it no longer matters to me
how it ends.

The sudden hum of a guitar
when struck by an errant hand,
as if to say a mistake
can lead to music.

The puff and crackle
of the end of a cigarette
as I inhale, simple fireworks
at a not too distant memorial.

The squirmy abrasion
of my fingers rubbing my closed eyes,
distant sand dancer in his box
on a stage in the past.

The rustle and creak of the bed
when I have been sleeping alone
and I am joined there by my lover.

My planet turning in space,
in orbit, constantly explaining
the nature of inevitability
(this one so rarely heard
I am amazed by it
as if for the first time
each time I hear it).

The whistle
in the back of my raw throat
as I drift into sleep, singing of persistence
and a hope of morning.

These are the sounds
of end time,
of my last lingering pleasures
in life, all speaking so softly
I might miss them, and I often do;

they move me enough to imagine joy
at hearing them again.  Keep me
alive, wonder-filled, straining
my ears for more.