these
evenings insist
on showing us
their
chubby fucking faces
they have the
silence in their
eyes
like
they're trying not to
laugh
holding back and pointing
while
slowly turning red
like it's something so
terrific
to see us
in this place
it's something so
terrific
to stay and watch the way
that this nothing
can
drive a man
to nothing
huddled in a bed with a
bare leg hanging down
a mind in songs of
secrets and the
water on the streets
waiting for the sound to come
with a
suitcase and a bow
and a
flower wrapped in celophane
and how nothing, in it's
absence, is just
everything at once
and how
every word can
stand for
every truth
or
every lie
but
silence is
life's honesty
and leaves nothing
for which to wonder