It is always quiet here.

The stately trees exude serenity,
they are full of years and past storms,
the horses stand entirely still,
their heads down.

You come to me in thoughts
and in glimpses,
in a phosphorous of neurons,
I will never enter the mine
from which they dug the silver
hanging from your ears.

And the moon rises so slowly
over the city with the streets and blocks
greened with watermeadows and rushes,
the ancient forests
abuzz with cars.

It is always quiet here.

So the students fall asleep
over their books,
sweet Johnny Keats and metabolites
and segments of the halos of lamplights
curve over the pages.

Everyone dies young here, and their youth
runs through them forever
with the hazy softness of a baby
just woken from dreams,
like mist among the grasses.

Even the lonely find peace in this place,
their loneliness deepens and fades,
like a kiss the crowds in the mirror enter
but finally no one leaves,
and the winter
tastes faintly of snow and the snow
tastes like the lips of a stranger
hunting lost silver…

It is always quiet here.


A poem not used for the pamphlet, Only [Oystercatcher Press, 2010]