Here in the silence between
our eyes I hear the rain that is not
falling.
Inside silence there is a deeper
silence.
We might rush to its edge, or tiptoe, and always
the silence has grown beyond
itself.
There are no words here worth
saying. We say them anyway
for the pleasure of slipping
into the space between.
Somewhere a man
is shouting to his friend.
Somewhere a car is grating
into gear.
Somewhere a bird is moved to sing
a one-note song again and again,
a daylong ellipses …
and everywhere this invitation
to look into the other
and know ourselves
as listening.
The idea that one might rush to the edge of silence is such a concrete vision of such an abstract idea. Very nice. And a lovely ending too.