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
room – waiting – wait – listen
to see what form sound will take