Ayin – Jeremy Marks

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The wind
though violent is silent
tonight and I reminisce of purpling

Seeds that
will burst red pop! and
sunburn’s loud front lawn greens

A lotion,
sound; in the air keys
listing lazily in odd mellow cicada

there isn’t a name for
this spectacle or the silent stalk of

Gale either
what do we call a wind
that is silent save a silent wind

instead we might call it
Ayin, the Hebrew letter with a

Symbol ע
that sees but does not
speak; an internal eye, like the one

You hear
when reading: movement
first of the blood and then neurons

recognition –Ayin!-
almost forcing itself to be spoken but

its cardinal virtue thus we
miss its meaning. Must we become

now in our language of the
mute, feel compelled to fill what we

to be the dead air with so
many lubricious words and innuendos

spiked bowls of punch
with chatter about the weather of all things?