But under the silence
   of what we say to each other,
       is the much more articulate silence
           of what we don’t say to each other,

a storm of things unspoken,
  coiled,
     reserved,
       appointed,
        ticking away
  like a clock attached to a time-bomb:
    crash,
       fire,
         demolition wound up in the quietly,
            almost tenderly,
              small,
                 familiar things
                    unspoken.