sometimes speaking is like silence and sometimes
silence is a kind of speaking
and sometimes speaking and silence are so different
it is impossible to tell which is which

when I speak in my dreams the amber dawn
is a scarf across my liquidities
and for darkness it is as absolute as death

which rots in its many guises
like sputum in the gutter
where a single red geranium blooms by a car tyre

it may be impossible to tell day from night
if the sun is a gong of betrayal and if the darkness
winks with satellites and it may
be that human blessings are mere toys
for those with childish fingers and the minds of poets

that are at best insufficient
to the adequacies of worldly murders that
fibrillate the glottal heart and slash
lips to pragmatic thins

and in the monoxide lies there may be
no justification for this silence
flowering towards another silence