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.