Some live with fear of silent spaces.
I do not know much about them except
their noise is a juju;
something to wave at a graveyard gone to weed.
Alarmed, they think it had some other place to go,
are saddened to find it had none
will weep when sent to the promised land.
Where I live they fear the silent spaces
entire empty places in the land and those
in them or me
and work hard to overcome the nothing in their way.
This is one enlightenment reedy
in an old man's voice
prepared by flannel echoes, comfortable shoes
and news heard nightly at six and ten.
I am bound to silent spaces I know well,
frequent their source, ply eschatology
to assure quiet:
whereof one cannot speak, with that make peace.
If you've any comments on this poem, Anthony Fedanzo would be pleased to hear from you.