April, with cities not yet completely convinced that the air they breathe is filled with millions of lethal particles— what is the difference between air mottled with simple, burnished dust and this plague that enters our houses to take up residence in the upside-down chandeliers next to our hearts? Time is out of its usual dispensers: no more horse-drawn carriages clocking circles around the park, no more log books and sign-in sheets spread open in building lobbies; no more waiting in line for tables. The Spanish bluebells are out; streams begin to clear of softwood and rot, and the heart of day seems as quiet as night. How did it take so long to get to this place of listening, with that deep silence the only thing that's returned to us?
Purveyors of fine poetry since 2003.