Who will tell you, or know what to tell you,
what you have been pieced together for?

Were you not made to wait for that one call?
Words, numbers, cannot be trusted. Silence.

That would be your only language. Muted. Wait
in resigned silence, like the alloyed moonlight

slipping past your silken bivouac into another
night of waiting for a Silence on the sheets.

No one is on this, no codes were made to break;
nothing works except silence, suppliant/defiant.

When your call comes, pray do not use the door,
but climb down your cell from your window sill,

clambering down clutching knotted sheets, like
the thief descending on an airborne carpet…

Against the obscured moonlight, your shadow
disappears. This time, keep your grave’s silence.

—Albert B. Casuga