I like the silence until it begins to turn everything so loud.
Silence in which a crumb explodes between an ant’s mandibles.

I like it like the captain of a ship drinking brandy in the tophouse
on the last night of a long trip, sleepy in the sea chop.

Often it is even better to eavesdrop on prostitutes at truck stops
than it is to be quiet. And for the price of a cup of coffee…

I think of the hermit philosophers, the ascetics of the deep woods,
all those words in their heads and nothing to say to anyone.

I catch a fly, muffle it between the vase to a dead bouquet
and a book by Nietzsche. Then I open all the windows and sing.

by Ryan Dowling