Poem with a line from Ilya Kaminsky

What is silence? Something of the sky in us.
A rift that opens, so two not speaking

can step through to find a street
still blunted by rain, part

of a fence leaning against another
part that isn't broken. There's no need

to point out what needs to be done.
Once, on a mountain road wide enough

for only one vehicle, two
met in the middle, unable

to proceed. I don't know how each
made its way to its destination:

if passengers got down from the bus,
shouldered their belongings and made

the trek to town on foot. It's not
so easy to return to the beginning

when something keeps nudging you
forward. A stone thrown over the edge

falls for a long time, and you strain
your ears to hear the sound it makes.

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