silence.

held at such a distance, this is solace. this is solace. so deliberate; the stillness in my hands, one folded upon the other upon each other; this inertia; this single perilous moment. but i cannot…you must realize how–i must realize how tensile it all is. all this silence and speaking. and our infinite apprehending of one’s own finitude. so i remain aloof hidden in the corners, watching the black figures “seem[] to float from the door / Of the packed cathedral / Like blossoms on slow water” (S. Heaney). perhaps then you shall look to me, and you will read everything — everything in the shadows falling upon a pitiful face.