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.