The Death of Silence

A car’s backfire

rifles the ear

with skeleton clatter,

the crowd’s walla walla

draws near, caterwaul

evaporating in thin air.

Silence is dead.

(Long live silence.)

Let’s observe a moment

of it, call it what it’s not:

splatter of rain

that can’t soothe

the window’s pane,

dog barking

up the wrong tree.

Which tree, which air

apparent is there to hear

a word at its worth?

Hammer that drums

its water-logged warning

against the side

of the submarine:

I’m buried to the hilt

like the knife,

after it’s thrown,

continues to bow

to the apple

it’s split.