HUSH
It is
the nature of anything to go on changing
Where
am I, after here, in prism-light
Arranging
voices
Which arrive
In whispers
In
tremors of goodnight
The
moon
Isn’t speakable or here anymore
It
resembles an idea
Reflected, in
The way
These whispers
Strike
Until the night
Is broken
&
The spoken
Is unclean
Mark DuCharme