a skip in the record,

the fifteenth line of a sonnet, it’s the
sound of one hand clapping or both hands pressed
over one’s ears while eyes shut tight, it’s the
left hand eagerly reaching forward while

the right hand draws back, or it’s both hands clasped
behind the head so fingers don’t double 
up mad into a fist and throw a punch 
instead, it’s the heart part surviving a 

surgery of analysis, beyond
paralysis, an insight able to 
leap tall buildings in a single bound, the
silent sound, the reason we came to the

party, the one we left the party with,
what’s left after we turn out the light, it’s