Sutra

To
de­scribe
si­lence with
sound is an
irony pro­found:
words
are
fil­a­ments.

Better: with emp­tied
chest, closed
mouth.
Head and
hands cupped — night branches for
lam­bent birds
to
rest upon. 

Almost all my po­ems have jokes in them. There are two here: both are the ob­vi­ous rhyme in the first stanza, a sort of em­pha­sis to the reader that they are lis­ten­ing to sound and not si­lence, and an ac­knowl­edge­ment on my part that my at­tempt is fun­da­men­tally ridicu­lous. After read­ing this aloud, how­ever, I pause for 10 sec­onds or so, and I’ll glare at any­one who makes a sound.

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