On the tracks to the east, a train’s heading north. A long train.
North through the fog, beneath a full moon.
The moon that kept us up most of the night.
Light in the room. Light between the closed blinds.
But it’s the silence up there that I wonder about.
I can’t help thinking how strong the moon must be.
Is that why it’s round? To keep it from being crushed by silence?
I wonder which is stronger — silence, or sound?
Gravity, or knowledge? Foolish questions. Empty, really.
An excuse for a poem. Can a poem be crushed by silence?
It seems obvious that it can’t exist without it.
Being crushed, though, is another matter.
Made flat enough that I can slip it under the door after I tiptoe out.
Or brush it with oil, sprinkle it with seeds, and slide it into the oven.
I think I’ll go for a run. While it’s still dark and cold. To see for myself.
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Categories: Sweet Sleep and Bare Feet