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

Mimicry
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

Perhaps
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

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

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

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

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

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