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A car’s backfire
rifles the ear
with skeleton clatter,
the crowd’s walla walla
draws near, caterwaul
evaporating in thin air.
Silence is dead.
(Long live silence.)
Let’s observe a moment
of it, call it what it’s not:
splatter of rain
that can’t soothe
the window’s pane,
dog barking
up the wrong tree.
Which tree, which air
apparent is there to hear
a word at its worth?
Hammer that drums
its water-logged warning
against the side
of the submarine:
I’m buried to the hilt
like the knife,
after it’s thrown,
continues to bow
to the apple
it’s split.
How my heart sings 