Cities and suburbs, real and imaginary.

Monday, August 22, 2016

Sonnet #51

The Word of God is silence, can you hear it?

It is the hum of blood, a windless day, a buzz
below the threshold of the ear, because
all the movement and the heat, how we sit
on the back porch, listen as the late summer
sun that's beating down the trees and bodies
All of it's a shivering echo of a threnody
Sung when every piece of star was smaller
Than the eyes that search out for the source;
After that word spoken, what need for prophets
There are flowers in the fields, blood laughters, 
songs in twilight among all gardens, and what of it?
Can't silence also have a volume rising hoarse
these ripples of a silent shout, strain to hear it?

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