White Noise

The fan beside my bed-side whispers me
to rest, a gurgling flood of air
that lifts my mattress ark—
                                           afloat, I slip in sleep.
At 4:13, awake to hear

the drowning voices of my dreams
that cling to floating scraps of consciousness,
to hear my wife beside me breathe
the rest

I do not have, I do not hear
the fan.
Strange to think how constant things
will pack their bags, vacation in

the tropics of unawareness till
we bring them back
with heightened strength of will.
The black

of night illuminates my darkest fears,
and grasping at her sleep-twitched hand
I wonder if she fails to hear
my own white noise:

                                  I love you
                                  I love you
                                  I love you
                                  I love you