In trying we do

Between the lines

Sits silence

In the lines

Is foam

I prefer my silence punctuated

For silence is not stillness

But a vacuum

If not for birdsong and conversation

The hum of a radio

Turned off is a strange alchemy

To a dark room

And silence can be good shared

When two people know how

To wear their surroundings

But silence alone

Can be a grand shadow

Or an echo

Of that great silence

Of which we do not speak

And from silence

Inner noise is born

And from noise

Inner silence

And at the nadir

Is a point of precarious bliss

That in naming

Disappears

And names

Are the clothes

Of form

But what is form

If it is unnamed?

And what is silence

Without song?

The blank expression

Of a whisper

In the night

From the inner ear

Of dream

Amidst

The pressing gloom

A late winter thaw

That produces the dew

Or the yellow rising

Of another sun

On the tail of

An everlasting night.