A half completed hotel comes down around

a hollow bastion of silence and peace.



How rare silence is; how preciously finite

like all the good things.

Like wine and cherries and orchids

and any combination of the three.



My father and I used to climb mountains

to experience a silent so absolute that

you had to hold your breath

because it was making too much noise.

A silence so complete that

you can hear the trees grow.



But the hotel is crashing down

around my ears so clamorous and horrid

leaving me alone freezing in the cold

rubble and ruins surrounding me listening

to the cars pass by on the interstate.



How quickly stained glass breaks.