Noise inside this room is loud:
no voice seems ever quite as bold as Andrew,
my autistic son
- his voice is missing here.
He can sing – louder than a horn –
as long as loved ones standing near
listen to his rising tone,
resonate a chest, a core
and now I walk out through a door
to stand in rain, suck the breeze
and clock a waving tree;
beat my beating heart.
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