Wednesday, March 12, 2014


And now wacky am I, I thank you, mother, for 

the days I take no pill;

the oak table that folds upon itself,
a hinge, a turn, a hidden box 
containing nothing, a silence left to me alone;

the vaporous song echoing here from the 
dusty floor of a small house
in a village like so many.

I thank you that I somehow sing 

though rhythmns and their verses 
keep note and meaning but to me, 

through the doubt that song to my self 
in silence be song at all.

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