Monday, November 29

silence is what i always come back to
- a state of mind, not a state of sound
since always there is something:
wheel-buzz on the blacktop road,
the breathing of a friend
stoned in the passenger seat

wind catching the edges of the markers,
the trees around the fence, the tall grass
nearby

the hum of some electric motor, shifting
thermodynamic debt from one box to another
in the grey light of a midwinter basement

known,
truck traffic on the interstate
train whistles just down the block
grain rattles, drying
in a corrugated steel bin

unexpected,
rain outside an open window in the spring
snowflakes sift onto leaves and needles
cotton and synthetic threads
slide across skin

party to some stillness
so that i am a reflective surface
an echo, action or its absence
stripped of explanation
unconstructed, no definition
no excuse.