Only profound silence
makes that rushing sound,
akin to the flight of blood
from the heart to the head,
or to the tissue-paper rustle of a crowd
dancing to music so loud it’s in your teeth.
The slide under the thud; the torrent over the pulse.
You can live in that sound.
It makes for thought so deep
that when a bird slams into the window
or the phone rings
you’re burst open
and need a moment to see that nothing has changed,
you are where you were;
though the curved corners of your mind will echo
with the blows of a fierce and clamorous argument.
It will serve you well
to plumb the depths of this type of silence.
Sinking, you will come to rest on a solid bed;
rising, you’ll ascend steady as a diver,
and break the surface, open your mouth
(First published in New Contrast 164 Vol 41, No 4)