Diaspora Sonnet 18

The workers hum to wile away
the afternoon and tenants chide
their sons to sweep from room to room
last night's dust motes — stirred dreams
entangled in wide streaks of light

that, in the daytime, bloom,
unsparing, bright — like operatic
high notes. Pierced and round,
the clouds of sleep fill us with
sound. A loss. A tune so deep within

the brain we cannot help but weep
as sons push brushes past door after door
locked tight like eyes and tombs.
Our quiet. Our heavy score.