so silent I only hear the rush of my blood,
the silence of nature — stir of birds, leafs in a breeze-
or the clock ticking in a quiet room.’
But does the deepest silence hover in a room
where the clock was stopped
and the wind holds its breath,
or when the clock ticks
in a sleeping house and
blackbirds sings in the dead of the night?
In a poem it can only be silent
when the poet says it is
but it isn’t while he speaks.
He has to shut up first.
No poem. Just silence.