some days i spend entirely in silence,
carefully lifting and setting down each
foot, each book, each glass of milk.
come evening, i huddle together with
those creatures who hide in quietude,
fragile ones often scared away by voices
but lured out by the plain stage of their
absences, tiny lacunae in which we breathe.
like wisened senators together on the bench
their old eyes speak; i gaze back
and hold the question there, conversing
soundlessly as if we sat beneath
the bed of a giant or between the paws
of some fierce beast, puffing out
bursts of hot breath in shallow sleep.
we are deciding what to do
(and when and how)
and feeling brave and feeling stuck.
and then a monstrous snort,
and then we scatter back to holes,
and dens, and nests. and then the day is gone.
tomorrow may be like that, and perhaps
the next. onward towards the urge to speak.