The house grows silent, but windows
pulse, containing sound. Lights
flicker on, off: questions
without cease, day and night.
In the middle of a sentence,
the hum of an insect interrupts.
Every bright song is sewn
to its darker inversion.
[LAG-signature date=”07 03 2012″ url=”http://morningporch.com/2012/07/159122646/”]
Very Daoist, those last two lines! Love it.