There are points of silence circling the heart.
They are itself,
but facing it.
Reclining on its multiple days,
not undone at its death,
but on terms with her.
It is not a writing of silence looking for an eye,
nor a God safe outside himself,
nor cowardly rain,
nor a dog tormented by his own barking.
The heart is a silent hand,
with its finger facing it.
It imitates their throbbing, but they won’t be tempted.