So
very
disorienting, at first
to traipse-
out anonymous in the city's
oppressive din—
but gradually,
it gets easier
to perceive there—and even
to make a
little spare
sense of
this bizarre tingling
thing, this
slithering
feeling you get,
of—
hearing so
much! and yet, nobody
talking. Of—
deep and ancient
currents, of the arcane
filaments
of a somehow
sentient Monday
morning,
which just
sort of
brainlessly but
reverently stretch,
now threading
out and among
and between the bald
trees from
street to neighborhood
street—flexing to contain (and this
is the really
sticky part): not just you
and your story,
but the
whole situation—
in an invisible
and an in-
divisible slush
that's getting slowly meshed
and strained togther
in the same coagulating net.
And then—after that,
coalesces the milky
thought
that sometimes—loud silences
such as these
are described
as being "profound."
But a lot more
often than that, they're
mostly only sturdy,
that is—thick
with the
tart cool
of their own
simple dumbness.
