Except for the radiators
this place is silent.

There’s not much
to say beyond that.

You could say that makes it
more lovely,

but you’d be wrong.
You could say that makes it

more holy, but no one
really knows what that means

any more — more full of God,
perhaps, or more full of

a foolish man’s insistence on
the presence of God; whatever.

Meanwhile, the radiators
hiss, crack wise, chortle;

you name it and it comes forth.
Underneath all that rises the hum

from the basement, from
the big burner. Other than that

and my own noise — snuffling
of the nose, ringing in the right ear —

this might all just be this side
of a maddening quiet.

You know what I mean:
it’s too silent to be believed real

so I focus upon the clacking of these
typewriter keys for comfort.

I tell myself
this will be worth it or it won’t

but it needs doing,
even so.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
onward,
T