for taije


the canticchiò is in the kitchen

gurgles, fish; Mountain always

journey; mother’s knees an instant,

brush, gaze beyond; within these walls

no sound; sound.  Cry.  Birdsong now.

Hammering.  Car.  Hum.  That house is

no more.  That other house is Still.

O poet.  That was BlaspheMe.



i go every day to that small

roomwaiting – wait – listen

to see what form sound will take