Not running, not humming, not
flying a kite, not rowing,
not kissing, not kneading soft dough,
not sipping mint tea, not shoveling sand,
not raking, not lifting, not opening doors,
not thinking of you except when I do
to say to myself to stop thinking of you,
not writing a grant, not washing
the floor, and meanwhile the silence
is silent beneath all my nattering
chatter and for an instant between
the not folding, not driving,
not typing, not weeding
the infinite nothing of silence
not changing, not able to be told.