Sat here and waiting; an emptiness is all.
Watching the candles cold-burning flame, mourning
the passing of time. Words, veiled
in silence (silence and words are one)
I expect a dove to descend.
Outside the clouds, low clouds
a hanging freedom. Still and free
as a knowing mind –
“but night will drown you
and your sky. No witnesses.”
I pick up a book, and read it
slowly. All this is far away, and still
it is. All time is my time and I feel
the pull of it. The word; these words –
the word and world of it.
I too am written, writing you my life.
My life I am writing, and being written by.
The street is silent.
But then the train. The train
chokes on its own echo
as it crosses the bridge. The wheels
make conversation with the broken air –
the sky replies
releasing the dove.