words begin

The Breath of the morning came like the breath Of each morning before it – in stony yawns. And the Breath of the morning came again From nothing – in the darkness of a formless

Place which speaks in entangled rhyming scheme, In hieroglyphs of whispered mutterings. If there is any time which the dead speak It’s the time in which we all retreat and there is a tree growing on the sidewalk and there is the road and leaves on the road and the leaves on the trees and across the road with the tram tracks the road going down and the long tracks and the station and the people waiting there and the boots and the shoes the sandals the socks and pants and the city in the distance the gardens and the rotunda and the autumn leaves like a movie from the 90s with old houses and lamps and construction workers and electrical tape and the pub with no one in the pub and the streets with cobblestones which the water runs down and the cars and the noise of the city and the streets

Static, white, glass window, light. The legs wobble; the knees bend; words begin. What once itched now begins to sting.

Under the covers to warm our feet. The voices come to prod at our voicelessness. and

Stop! Did you hear that?

I heard something. Did you hear?

Stop. What’s that you hear?

Silence

In itself.

Night falls.

The universe yawns in its non-statement With no words to shuffle about, As we redraw patterns – oblivious in ourselves.