silent night - edit from 6/19

My head's tucked in my arm
like the wing
of the bird who even at 4am is singing in some tree,
I feel the bicep press my temple,
my tightening jaw
but not the blood in my body
not the healing of wounds:
blisters gained in gardening;
burns seared brown while baking bread,
holes, from being, finally, left behind.
If the sunrise is coming, it's silent
if the night's slipping past, it isn't so loud as my hair rustling in hand.
and the voices that filled my ears for three decades
make not enough echo now to drown out
anything