THE HIDDEN HUSH

If there is any such thing as silence
Where on earth would we find it

So long as we remain alive here
If not inside the deepest, darkest cave?

Even nestled down within a lightless cavern
We'd mistake the colossal subharmonics for quiet.

And Death itself will not offer us this complete peace.
By that time, we will no longer be listening.

THE OTHER VOICES

for Al Attanasio

 the mirror-people escaped 
from their self-portraits

   individual droplets 

comprising a much larger wave

   creatures of a greater dynamic
whose crest disappears when examined

  the waves of a myriad individuals 

so long as they do not interfere

what breaks down 

into a higher order
 
   the reduced forms who peer

 over  their own event horizon

growing into a greater array

   to look back from whence they came

  broken down from an ionic compound 

and reconstructed by electrostatic forces

  the electrically insulated beings 

of a highly conductive experience

  the few freed electrons of a greater surge 

that made it through the slit

salt to sparks

   sparks to salt 

STARCROSSED

From high above the earth I've seen
a shared view with the eagle's keen sense 
of focus a darkened tower of cloud bank shining, 
& beneath its bower prosaic beams of sunlight 
engrave an inscription of steam on the land 
underneath unveiling a dream whose vision 
bequeathed to mine eyes held aloft 
of the glorious scrying, the difference between 
those living & dying, though seemingly occupied 
on the same land and on happenstance meetings 
intertwined by the hand are in fact in a fleeting 
transition of fate whereby sharing the meadow 
on each other's date is entirely besides the point 
as of late, for each bending vista that reflects 
from their eyes is a seperate world under 
differing skies and the dream shared between them 
an illusory lie as they whistle together hand in hand 
down the path oblivious to the contact in defiance 
of the wrath of the moment illumined by the Sun. 
The intergalactic contact is over the moment
when our clasped hands come undone.

SITTING IN A WICKER CHAIR IN MY BACK YARD IN SALT LAKE CITY UTAH

for James and Franz


The peach sapling in front of me
personifies a defiance behind which
more flowering trees gather.
An old oak that long ago lost its leaves
grows a new white branch reaching upward
with capillary fingers for a blue April sky.
The white cloud above that assumed the bottle 
nose dolphin shape is now a boxing glove
slowly becoming a human brain.
Various bird songs blend with the wind
creaking the wood slatted fence
our neighbor's maple grove leans upon.
Never mind the sound of passing rubber tires
or the commuter rail train clanking by.
I have tried to make the best of my life.

SILENCED

Winter's light
through clouds, March
and curtains reaches
our room 

A weary traveler 
after so many
miles you'd think

But no, the light
remains as easy going
and bright as it ever was

Even if its voice
 somewhat muted
 dissolves away