The house grows silent, but windows
pulse, containing sound. Lights
flicker on, off: questions
without cease, day and night.
In the middle of a sentence,
the hum of an insect interrupts.
Every bright song is sewn
to its darker inversion.
In response to an entry from the Morning Porch.
OTHER POSTS IN THE SERIES
- Ciphers
- Preces
- Rest Stop
- Presentiment
- Ghazal, Between the Lines
- Ghazal, Beaded with Rain
- Night Heron, Ascending
- Derecho Ghazal
- Mid-year Ghazal
- Punctuation
- Mortal Ghazal
- Landscape, with Chinese Lanterns
- After
- Charmed Life
- Undone
- Index
- What We’ll Remember
- Amarillo
- Ghost of a pulse in the throat
- Throttle Ghazal
- Visitations
- Of Nectar
- Preliminaries
- To/For
- Capriccio
- Getting There
- Four-Way Stop
- Vortex
- Flood Alphabet
- Tokens
- The hummingbird isn’t the only bird
- A hawk circles over the ridge
- Rather than the tightening fist,
- Reversed Alphabet of Rain
- Cocoon
- Manifest
- (poem temporarily hidden by author)
- Intertext
- Letter, to Order
- Telenovela
- Retrospective
- Breve
- Pumapatak*
- There’s a bird that comes
- Spore
- September 1972
- Fire Drill
Very Daoist, those last two lines! Love it.