Noisome Silence

The silence chatters knowingly of words

unsaid—better that way—so rancor molds

into the blackened crust that solitudes

parallel lines in mathematical precision.

Cleanly, numbers waltz in dire solemnity,

calculate the morning of your algorithm,

stripping mystery from destiny’s illusion.

You’d change your numbers like your socks

to twist the sun around the earth—the counter-

revolution of Copernicus, yourself the navel

of the world chanting, “What a piece of work…”

to stone-stopped ears, statutes against deafening

sounds that clatter the cluttering of the silence

once cherished as the cherries plucked ripe

from swollen trees of distant promises.