Since
I couldn't
no-wouldn't
stand the voice
No-noise,
the incessant barrage
of worded white noise,
I wrote poetry
(for constraint).
What does happen when
2 pennies are rubbed together,
a spark
of sense?
The sound that silence plays
while filling in the gaps
has become louder the older
I get, as if I get
something.
Who is the I
that claims to Be not I-
the poet
The words with an alibi
from elsewhere
saw how small and narrow
the mark Itself made, and made
more width and depth
to shroud the naked nouns.
When I went
quiet
you covered your ears.
My two eyes narrowed
even more,
the poem burst and dissipated
in front of us, like memory
maligned
for lack of metaphor
or something nice
to be noted.
Image credited by Edgar Degas [Public domain], via Wikimedia Commons.
Title: Louise Halévy Reading to Degas, c.1895
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