That time I hurt my ear so hard,
The doctor told me Silence sounds
A little different to everyone.

The thing we hear when nothing sounds
Is how our body sounds to us.
So, Silence means we hear ourselves.

The Shaolin monks would nod to that,
And maybe jocks in water tanks,
The ones who’ve taken blows to ears,

And maybe those, like me, in beds
Recovering from accidents,
And med-retired patriots,

And those with Lyme and Ménière’s,
And dozen other named defects,
Who hear themselves always abuzz.

When Silence stops being silent us,
Becoming quite a violent us,
Are we who we were used to be?

Do I rebel so constantly
Against this newly ringing me?