In the end of a hop-stitch,
Coma of puns,
As laughter spins idle in a
Series of ports,
I long for the stories of silence.
It comes at the end,
Un-paused, unannounced;
As sure as the sun, it descends.

In the midst of a company
Ready, diverse, and meaning
Of many good things:
Ears bent at angle,
Hearts throbbing sincerely
In angst,
He hides quick away
To the dark.
And there, at the thrust
Of a new, knighted dusk
Is something of relished relief.
Can any one soul, disrupted
In jollity raucous
Be earnest compelled to
Sing of the heart,
Proclaim wisdom of kings
Or note the fine tune of the day?
I say, I say
That the unheard reserved in
The spiraling nothing of nights
Should be all but revered
As the star of the well-bided day.

I remember, and still,
Swallowing blackness
The memories flashing and
Crisp; they curl and clap
Ovation and sap
The many inspiring tales
Of the past.
Surely, you know,
Supine at the bedpost
The irksome regret of your
Doings! Else smiles ensue,
The dull laughter awake
In summation of goodness
Sell night for the day
And day for the night?
Ridiculous thoughts,
You must know!
How else after doing and
Saying and being in a
Dervish of living at all
Can one make sense of man’s
World, confusion, and sin,
And even divinity’s call?
No one knows me who knows me
If they know I am better for
Being with them;
They should think of the
Ways I aspire to good,
Retired, recall, with fever
And fear how much the acts
Of my days have undone.
For as the sun rises
And stars rush away
There is newness in every
Soft stretch. Eke the yawn
And the greeting, the
Slow-fired stir in the light,
I have made of myself a
Great cavern of voices
That clamor to know —
And to live —
For the silence of right.