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