Sound Verifies

World glides through the window, section
displaced from the otherwise. You see
far ahead: there is a someone. She is multiplied

in purpose, a gathering of her demons, for which
you have no more speech, only a hope of shutting
the window. The world teeters on the edge

of dimension, burning. Equally, your sound
verifies itself. No matter who says it
the grim, dim What? You turn back to the computer.

Your words challenge the anger that smokes
the air outside the window, sirens two blocks
away. No, your work energizes. Whatever

the tension built up over years. World is not
implied but given in visualistics. Type
molds a reply to silence across the daughter’s

telephone. You risk foreclosing, although
I am here, a sphinx. To say anything in type
helps little, answers already closed. In this

setting forth a theme, I love the consequence
of your writing, boldly set against
common order. My time is fast.

You are working. What have I left out?
Everything that is included, even love
in a modest way. Our years clarified, cemented.