the silence of the day   in stone 

in snow  in a room  that is home

and in the silence scattered light

calls to each other:   be the bowl

we can gather in in this shattered house

through which the swallows play

the shadows of the day darken the

silence   what rises from the earth

carries us away  

and from around the corner

 the dog comes to nose what is left, 

the crumpled sheets, the overturned chair, 

the open window through which the wind blows

the smell of spring rain and turns the pages

of the book it knows but cannot read

the silence of this day — its howl, 

 the thing in itself