Pictured Noise

Tell me a good story. I’ve been walking through the grocery aisles
for too long, looking for pasta. A woman passed by me
under the fluorescent lights, holding a carton of milk.
To the left: a row of registers, two exits, a young wife with her crying toddler.
I inhale and remember that I haven’t been sleeping so well. I keep hearing violins.
I keep wondering about the sound you make when you disagree with me.
The tenderness I hear between reproaches. How you sit
and touch the piano keys. How I watch the beach repeat itself daily.
How we do all the bad things. How we talk about marriage. How we pray at night
without telling anyone. How we run into old friends unexpectedly.
Our recorded lives. Say that, I tell them, say it better.
Recall the key points of a great affair and say them precisely. Tell me what her hair
felt like. Tell me the sound she made when you moved your hand.