We spoke yesterday of nothing.
Today the silence resonates and decays in an instant.
I haven’t eaten a thing in hours . . .
I walked here. My ankle throbs.
Every beating heart in this vast place goes on
of its own ulterior motive.
I could die here . . . or anywhere.
There are so many things that I will never say.
People continue to move in obscure patterns
oblivious to all the strange and beautiful
thoughts around them dancing, energetic, luminous
yet invisible perhaps forever . . .
I can’t decide.
Some days every bit of food tastes like
a vague, fleshy wetness if not an artifice
of flavor and texture.
I only know that I want something
but not anything . . .
Some stories cannot be told
because we’d destroy our capacity
to live and flourish if we believed them.
I had to tell you that I was thankful
(in so many words) before I left that day
even if you didn’t understand me then.
But later at home
I ate in silence.