Maybe the art is not apparent
maybe it isn’t real.
Maybe the silence out there
of embarrassment, of incomprehension,
that absence that is refusal
is wholly correct.
I no longer care.
I no longer expect
more. I ramble
on, being what I be,
as busy as the blood speeds
buzzing and humming.
Lonely,
sure.
But in here
with the light and the rain
the moist flaking fog
the dark boughs, the flashing trials
the golden trees, the melodies
in breath and out
why bother
stopping.
We can all
talk to the future.

12.10

This is not the silence of the cemetary
but of the soul world
of shadows that must be named and arranged,
of the explorations they force, and their rewards.

This is not the echo of the crypt
but conversation with a friend unknown,
another echo maybe, or another time
never to be known—
a phantom, or a future.

11/10