Out where a fragile silence listens, pale Sweet minutes on their honour as suspense Hangs like the rick'ty signboard of what hence Shall cough ere giving voice, yes, in that frail Calm rain does not quite tiptoe through t'avail, The voiceless naught is keenly for intents Half harking to what we don't hear from thence In all our haste to be, I search for bail. Old pools of water, silver-faced, don't stir, And crickets gently fiddle; cars pass through, Truck sans a care, weeds look too yellow to Be ransomed, and the eaves drip. Oh, what were We thinking, really? Death knocks 'gain in tour Yet we feign not to notice. Ah, what's new?