poetry for the poetic: 5

LVI

silence shaped as a statue, as an event without edges

when I think of myself, i am described with one eye

what some might call audacity, having lost something

trivial as a small death, a delusion-how many shapes

in a circular object, the veil of an iris, in the gorgeous

sea, where it is raining, and has been, the voices of the

past

too busy to be still