Silence has
the second-to-last,
long-suppressed word—
caught in chronically condensed time
no one listens to anyone.
Decomposed into splinters of sayings,
we are a grave of words
feigning language
to help us rummage through the everyday.
Lonely talk, written,
conversations with the dead; thought-conversations,
thoughts like clouds churning,
black birds out of thin air,
the white dove out of a dark cave.
Secret language
in syllables and sighs
between people in anguish of the spirit and body,
in the dreamer’s deep cavern the lament becomes a scream
when he finally betrays himself.
Lonely talk, written.
A stranger has the last word.
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