Never mind
the trees
that fall
in forests
when no one's around—
what I'd like to know now is:
does silence come
from somewhere?
If not from our hands,
from the future,
perhaps
as it abandons
the past—
or when the silverblue
dragonfly darts
and then hovers
as if coming
into a room, and then
forgetting why it entered?
Or could this universe
of reticence
imply something
more sinister—
a weaponized quiet
from the mouths
of prize roses
which ring the dry fountain
at the city park center
and whose only ambition
under the sun
is to put all these flurries
of action
to shame, and then
sit there in perfect
judgement?
