This silence has to be an inflection point;
I watch it tie its laces, flutter its incoherent wings,
as if it has a destination;
as if this solstice of unspeakable quiet
will roll over to reveal the symphony
chiselled from its muted sighs.
I plot unspoken words and unspent time
on disinclined axes,
the graph swallows me whole
into a black chequered sea;
a chipped Pinocchio in the recycled belly
of a made-in-China whale;
with an uncertain wooden cast
that grows longer each time I speak,
each time I lie about the whispers
in the calligraphed trees
of our halcyon days.
But the silence is leaving.
I watch it twist its roll neck, brush its gum-weary beak,
as if it has a destination.
In its place, a slightly askew rectangle
framing years of fine dust,
each speck risen from a memory
swept frugally into the blue dust pan;
no x-marks at the interlocking
of sticky fingers of a sweetened past.
In its place, the symphony, one hundred and eight violins,
playing in discordant mute,
to the rhythm of a giant wooden cast.