catastrophe of dawn—
to the loud Lauds
of galloping cars,
wind, and rain;
then, the chatter
and nibbling,
bit by bit
in this or that
room, until
all sacraments are gone—
to the gradual
slouching, the slow
bowing-down,
with its penitent
crawl towards
reconciliation
between twilight's
wine and slight
disinhibition
as they swim
through your mind and
play out on television—
nothing and no one
you'd shudder
to mention
as noiseless
or voiceless
ever seems to come.
The miracle, such
as it even exists
to be witnessed, is
there never comes
a second's-worth
of perfect
blameless silence
all day long—no
not even one.
