But once out of earshot — it's odd —
out of earshot and printshot and screenshot
how implicitly one believes
every second depends now
on a permutation of cloud
or the blowdown of the leaves
or the purple of the bergamot. Not
anymore on what Men do. . . .

A saving thought ... Although —
factor humanity out,
as five silent hills do now —
who's left, then, to tell it to?
Or to tell it? And anyhow
it's not true.











By permission of the author.