I noticed the immobility of the photographs clinging to my living room wall
And recalled the point, when they walked in August
pulling true tears—fresh and from the package
out my eyes and to this age
curved and still
cold and true.
At the end of my war against gravity,
I found my silence and nothing else.
My silence—a martyr of newness and oldness.
In this place, I do little but listen.
And time’s rigid victim can indeed keep its quiet
as downstairs a load of laundry is spinning
and swiftly and surely,
Martha’s Bouquet of Flowers will be wrapped cleanly in perfect linen.