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.