Like a rain I feel but cannot see,
the names of the dead, falling.
Silences I hear between
first names, middle, last
are slivers of empty air between
lines of rain. I want
to be in these tiny silences
that cannot hold their deaths
but join them to all silence —
rests in a piece of music,
the quiet beneath a rock,
the feather on a crow,
beak closed, wings
From Talking Underwater, Wind Publications, 2007. Posted by kind permission of the poet.
call it our craziness even, call it anything. it is the life thing in us…
And a poet said, Speak to us of Beauty. And he answered: Where shall you…
. . . and silence is the golden mountain. —Jack Kerouac Listen. Turn everything off….
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