Songlessness

All my poetry has gone quiet,

a silence settled everywhere,

not grown around a hollowness

or absence, but instead

a presence, diffuse and

full of metaphor, heavy

where it drips from gossamer

thoughts, soft as mist where

it dissipates. We could hide

here for days without words,

a substantive lull of limbs,

an inconversable languidness

of bedsheets & shared dreams

& sunlight which says plenty

without bottling it in ink.