i.

this is such graver in silence when all of
the sound has conspired in the multitudes:
hands like machineries
and the groaning of the bones, when such desires
are but thirsts intimately quenched

ii.

all is but silent as brookwater:
the image in the surface is surfeit
amongst the froth of passing images.

iii.

what strangeness shall we inherit
when your face is but melded into
the many? when your name is but a passing
utterance with its immense battlement?
when your dance is but offbeat and my song,
clenched?

iv.

you are silent. and I began to speak you.
which days pass on in the flutter of your eyelids
whose nights fractured by distant shrieks
and of no delight,
what deeply-plunging moon scathes itself
with this riveting quietude,

v.

I am all but answers and you are enigmas.
my voice is young.
let my mouth be ripe.
let my teeth gleam with light,
let my all be tender with your name
that the feel of you under me,
and I over you,
like bridges stoic, steel with stillness,
will never utter a word
and only the loudest of quietness
the world will ever hear.