I lie
at the bottom
of hardly hearable
rattles and thrums.
Hardly hearable,
yet persistent. They push through,
intruding upon me from below,
rubbing off on me, lightly
yet very, very lightly
they
keep hurting.
As if something frayed
between the floor and the ceiling,
somewhere in places where they cannot yet be told apart.
Particularly that high-pitched,
almost clear,
at times intermittent
quiver.
That is talk hitting.
It might be women chatting downstairs.