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.

listen

Sentami

i go every day to that small

room – waiting – wait – listen

to see what form sound will take