Otherwise, this is
not a poem. For me,
standing in silence
of this hour, I am
silence as words are
repetitious dreams.
Surely, you know
the quiet voice
bleeds into spaces
of the hollow bone.
For this reason,
stars, scattered in
the carved out spaces
where they were born
never master speech
or hearing and worms
with earth-filled mouths
never learn to sing.
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