Silence is the only trapdoor
Through which we may fall into the
Atmosphere; and take note of by passing air as we
Float here and there without weight to pull us by.
The present is what matters. History, we can always deny.
And of what we see as we hover
We may not ever make any note: how can we
Account for masses of unaccountable air, as we
Cut through its compelling power? It is the ground that we
Are used to walking: where it is defined who is preacher; lover.
The world gets by beside us; in spite of
Thoughts that throb not to make much meaning,
To defy the pristine logic of truth, I stand and wonder
When on one dreary day when age finally stabs, fells the
Will desire, too, fall and whimper to a death
Alongside him? Or remain a thinning shadow
In a cage lit dimmed? Will the cage open and
The desire to hold fly out if I make up my mind
That I hold you undoubt?