Swallowed Hush

there is something wrong
with the acoustics here,
the sound floats up like a cloud,
and hovers for a moment
in a kind of mute crescendo,
before it becomes a swallowed hush,
a pink smear today,
yesterday it was green,
like another balloon snagged
on the broken ribs of a giant cactus.

there is something wrong
with whispers in hospital rooms,
as the murmuring quiet
waits for the tree
to be felled,
so we can all hear again,
instead we watch the white ceiling,
a flickering vision,
sighing slowly,
turning into a deflated rainbow.