Oddments

In search of story


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December 16.19

Can you hear the nothing?

Does it have a name?

Is it stillness? No,

it’s not the same.

It lacks the breath

the stillness sighs,

it has no pulse,

nor lives nor dies.

The hollow air

and muted street,

in want of wings

and wheels and feet,

straddle worlds

of real and not

with fragile boundary

question-fraught.

Of substance there are

shapes and weights

King Winter’s touch

obliterates.

 

 


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Ears, part 3: Why not quiet?

Is it the silence of the dead
knowing
what we long to know
but not telling?

Is it the predator stillness
before the storm
bristling quiet
crouched
on thick cloud haunches?

Is it the muteness
of gasping
wordless grief
wordless rage
wordless despair?

I think not.

It’s the well
silence
dark
cold
deep.
Look down
it’s you
it’s me.

We fear self
soul owning
met in too-eloquent silence.

The lone buzz

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the shy creek gurgle —
pianissimo —

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the contemplative
continuo of leaves —

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too like silence?
Must they be
covered over?
Must quiet
be silenced?

Yes
noise is safe
silence threatens
there is no other explanation.