in the night garden, a bird
is calling.
my pulse sifts
in and out of my ears. it is not enough.
if there were coyotes here they would cry
and it would not be enough to keep me
from running
toward the far off light in a stranger’s house,
if there was one to see; where
if i pounded on the door, i would surely be
rejected, falling to the stoop
smelling of jasmine and
flop sweat: beauty tinged
with despair.
i once hoped for this
solitude, but am losing faith
in its value: if i am this alone,
how will i recognize the presence
of truth? i may become too eager
to accept anything
that might speak to me,
simply to escape the empty sound of
no voice at all.
a still, small voice, they said.
they put me here and told me there were ways
to find god in the silence. listen for the still,
small voice.
i am listening and all i hear is my own.
art isn’t worth it. god isn’t
worth it. nothing is enough
except the fullness of
another person — woman, man —
nearby.
i am trying to remember that language
is an exchange.
Dark Matter 