we will make the right question
which will have no answer–
what is silence but the most precious possession?
the deadened sound? the nevermore?
what is not beyond touch?
voices? the past?
a sound that’s called your name
to be where you are–here on this hill–
a heaven for birdsong
would lengthen death’s worth
coiled inside the extended field
toiled & countless wonders
a substantial plane of erstwhile fingernail grime
stovepipe hats, binoculars & sunshine