It’s hardly like losing an eye, you couldn’t sue,
but one pundit reckons that silence is God; if so
I’m godless, and nostalgic for the nights I listened
from the lair of the sheets, to the starry window.
Instead what I learn and learn is a restlessness,
as supplanting the peace, a demonic sentinel leans
in the open arch of perception, whirring his barbed tail.
I get things done, like Sisyphus. Not even that.
Like some wan woman, washing her hair in the Styx.
from The School of Night (November 2004)