“The deaf don’t believe in silence. Silence is the invention of the hearing.” ~Ilya Kaminsky
As an olm, I know that the dark
Is just a mystical ether
That only the hopelessly light-struck
Could imagine filling this cave
Of emptiness that surrounds me.
As a stone, I have come to think
That stillness is the myth of creeks.
As a cut-glass tumbler, left out
In all weathers and forgotten
After the long-ago picnic
Of lovers, I can’t comprehend
Why these sinuously bending
Twigs in the tree above me fear
For green-stick fractures in the frost,
Why they rattle so bitterly
And whisper about brittleness.
As these words that came from nowhere
And from someone lost before them
As they now appear, I refuse
To believe in haunting. Death is
The invention of the living.