When the Evenings are Silent

Watching the moon
over the lip of a wine glass,
feeling the grass
below my feet, sleeping
at the feet of a giant dune,
the evenings are silent.

When I can't sleep
I listen to cars passing
on the avenue, there is silence
in their tread
and passangers
stare at buildings passing by
each with an untold story.

On the fourth of July
we watch fireworks
where silence takes off
its clothes between our oohs.

Mornings where a husband
makes coffee, a wife
finishes the crossword puzzle.

At work, in the closure
of a long meeting, people
chat regarding summer plans
or weekend yachting trips
up to the "old club."

In sanctuaries across
the world, people mourn the living
people celebrate the dead, confessing
in silence, the many sins of many
people.

Somewhere in the plains
wipers sweep the drizzle
off the windshield, like
waving goodbye to the fields
of crops practicing a gospel
of silence.

A man slips a paper
into a file, soon
forgotten due to an account
we now call silent.

Looking across the restaurant
I eavesdrop on the couples,
but in one corner, there is no
conversation. Years from now,
with moments of regret and
nostagia for something misplaced
between lovers, they'll probably
pass this restaurant and remember
savoring the flavors, the passions,
and finally the lack of dialogue, which
resulted in the loudest conversations
a pair of unmoving lips
ever experienced, broken
only by a kiss, and one of them
turning out the light
before sleep.