I went to a party to breathe poetry And came back carrying silence. A few shreds of air that a ceiling fan, Guillotined from a Georgia fall night.

I must have sleepwalked into the avenues, Seeking that rhyme, that unsolved riddle, That key to tighten the bodice of silence, With the silent pull of poems.

I handed Beth, who said she was a poet, A swimming pool of wine and got silence. My turtle tongue retreated, unable to ask her For a poem, into its carapace of language.

It is English as it can be only written in English, Yet between thought and sound, my voice Jammed, an obstinate Indian mule, unable To reach the honking geese, except in silence,

This air into which I exhale and inhale poetry.