The Unspoken

The Unspoken

And what if I told of the place where tales are woven
as tightly as life fighting for understory light?

The people there walk on two feet and one hand
the other arm free for salutation or salute.

Items of importance are buried at regulation
intervals in pots made of fragrant ash.

Things that are spoken go unheard; loudspeakers
blast the unspoken throughout the square.

In times of want, the lines of the hungry
dance a can-can complete with feathers and tinsel.

Sleep is distributed in four hour intervals and
tokens for dreams can be purchased from the office.

Apart from the roar of fever and the broadcasts, aside
from the small plucking of finger and toenails, all is quiet.

Unless you count the sound dust makes as
it settles upon the furrowed brows, the vacant cars.

Absolution is not hard to find at the market
and the library is full of perfectly ripe fruit.

Please join us for our nightly Feast of Tragedies,
sup on grated rainbows, stewed ice, and cricket song.

You will know the young ones by their shawls of wind,
while the old sport hats of haze stitched with pine needles.

Containment facilities are available for rent by
the second for whatever you might need to contain.

I like to go there at night, smoke a few cold ones,
and curl up like a tantrum-spent babe.