On the Surprise of
Silence
There is such grand freedom in shutting up,
in stopping the cool-heeled clatter,
the temporal stream of cloaked river-shade,
to stand supine in echoes of things eternal;
to know how little one's heart did
matter in heavens' long-lined blueprint,
to know the having not of nerve to
kiss her was nothing but humid summer
airs in the middle bit of one's life,
that time you can still remember of
being still small town kids in dreaming
of escape through the wicker-wire,
of being a twitch-flame from
tongue-in-cheek illusions
of drawing room hands in
clockwork spaces between notches of spine.
To silence all that, in spite:
some miracle.
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