In other noises, I hear my children crying -

in older children playing on the street

past bedtime, their voices buoyant

in the staggered light; or in the baby

next door, wakeful and petulant

through too‐thin walls; or in the constant

freakish pitch of Westside Baltimore

on The Wire, its sirens and rapid gunfire,

its beleaguered cops haranguing kids

as young as six for propping up

the dealers on the corners, their swagger

and spitfire speech; or in the white space

between radio stations when no voice

comes at all and the crackling static

might be swallowing whole a child's

small call for help; even in silence itself,

its material loops and folds enveloping

a ghost cry, one I've made up, but heard,

that has me climbing the stairs, pausing

in the hall, listening, listening hard,

to - at most - rhythmical breathing

but more often than not to nothing, the air

of the landing thick with something missed,

dust motes, the overhang of blankets, a ship

on the Lough through the window, infant sleep.