mon may one.

the voices of silence.

in my hole in the sky a pinhole crack my ceiling lens
and listen the radiator mumbled sigh
the cloud pull back and cry
for every thing we cant and cant undo

explanations are lures. every gesture suggests the possible. a cry fills with silence til it drops. another follows our secret belief.

every bush could hide a man
and if a bush could hide a man
it could hide an egg 
every egg could hide a migrant
and the keepers of the natural order
took away every bush.

kids, did you know the common earthworm, so humble in rain on sidewalk, plucked by robin, crow and fishermen, is a non-native in our world? what would we do without them?

the silence is getting to me. 

i don't recall what i did before. time out. what did we do when given time outs? we went crazy. we thought it was stupid and capricious and foreboded a lifetime of control. we sat and counted our eggs. we waited until our sentence was over. we're still waiting. i guess a silent retreat is assuming silence for one's self, a silence of one's own, an egg space in a time out of control. 
remember the eggs we had to carry like babies? oh, maybe that was just the girls. the eggs have their own silence and their shape is a perfection of silence and they're so fragile.  we got tired and careless. we dropped our eggs. who said we wanted babies? they weren't viable anyway. guilt and secret glee. 

the silence is getting to me.