HUSH
 
 
 
It is the nature of anything to go on changing
 
Where am I, after here, in prism-light
 
Arranging voices
                            Which arrive
        In whispers
 
In tremors of goodnight
 
The moon
                Isn’t speakable or here anymore
 
It resembles an idea
 
        Reflected, in
                            The way
                    These whispers
                                            Strike
 
        Until the night
                                Is broken
 
& The spoken
                        Is unclean


Mark DuCharme