William Michaelian

Poems, Notes, and Drawings

Foolish Questions

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

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