on bad days, the silence
has more to say to you
than i do. and yet

every day i worry
you’re not a reader
of silence.

if only i could give
my shape to silence, then you
might hear the crickets.

if silence
were nothingness, then
i would be green leaves.

but i saw the silence,
its air of winter,
its shape of clear empyrean.

its emptiness, strewn jewels —
all of it was precious;
none of it was secret.

above the radiance, i heard
earth is a place of rest —
and i believe it.

i press patchouli
to your wrist, your temple.
i draw the covers.

//