After injury, my father told me,

the house was so quiet he could live by listening. 
Outside: rain. Cicadas bristling.

Our neighbour fumbling softly with his gate’s useless lock. 
I remember the awful intimacy of those months:

your sleep was a sound I woke to. 
All summer the neighbour swept leaves beneath his fruit trees.

It hurt me, remember, how he tended his awkward privacy, 
yelling yes, I love you, no I can’t help you

at the shallow breathing of his wounded dog.