Before the sweep hand of time
There were moments, shapes, scents
The warmth of skin
Eternal, though passing,
A disconnected grammar
Then, later, while still a child
You learned of time
But still did not feel its sweep hand
At night, you lay in bed
Looking at buildings across the way
The old buildings of brick or stone
With square rooftops and fire escapes
The night sky clear and blue
With a golden moon for light
You sat up gazing at the windows
Wondering who was behind the drawn curtains
As the silence gave you timeless bliss

Once the sweep hand made its presence felt
Sweeping you forward
Breathless, dizzy, stumbling
What recourse but to break the grammar?
To feel each discrete moment
As in childhood
And recall translucent nights
With the moon and old buildings.
What tools but
Art, memory, and love?

The persistent hunger
Of the rebellious spirit
Feeding on flesh
Without surcease
The hunger of the eyes, the hands,
And the organs of desire
A vast stomach that growls for more
Every day a famine or feast
Devouring all that can be devoured
Stealing every gift
Dominating bodies
Gorging in a pit of bones
The hunger persists
Refusing the light
Insatiable
Desperate for the last morsel
And then wandering the world
Like a hungry ghost.

Silence (after Kierkegaard)

In an empty space
There is room to fill
Silence is an empty space
That offers entry
Of a presence more profound
Than speech
Trees and rocks are holy
In their silence
The power that shapes them
Manifest in their acceptance
The air and all its sounds
Is enfolded in silence
As is the stream, river, or ocean
Silently witnessing, silently permitting
Its source to speak in tones of silence
Language expresses the self
But silence expresses God
Responding to the power of mute prayer
And the reverential silence of graves.