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.