All silence troubles me.
There’s always something it leaves out:
a treason plotted amongst wisterias
the final explanation of the existence or the inexistence of God
the sound of rats in the rubbish
the clash of propeller and wind at the abandoned airport.
But morning bursts forth at the work site and I hear the noise of the steam shovel.
Men have already awakened and returned to their construction and destruction.
They’re going to build new houses and new tombs.
In the sunny morning, the Beatle comes to a stop in the motel alley.
Once again penis and vagina will try to understand each other
in this world so filled with failed encounters.
The steam shovel shovels and the caterpillar treads advance in the crater open like a flower.
Seen by the conductor’s sleepy eyes as the bus goes down the avenue, the world as spectacle.