The silence of lambs, the silence of fish eggs, the silence of the war machine. The silence of the Shinto temple, the Catholic confessional, the silence of the killer whale. The silence of raging bulls, the setting sun, a dripping faucet. The silence of the din, the cascade, the deafening silence of silence.

The silence of the loud-mouth poet, a baby’s cry, a worried mother. The silence of when all is said and done. The silence of a zoo at midnight, a lost cause, the moist earth under stone. The silence of a zipper, going up, coming down. The silence of a tear, a rend, a moan. The silence of joy and agony, defeat, victory and the stalemate. The silence of samsara, spinning round and round like axle gears, driving the whole show back to where it came from. The silence of exactitude, jamming Cinderella’s graceful foot into a size three slipper. The silence of unanswered questions and questions never asked, of warm mud in July, of explosions and immaculate conceptions. The silence of the swift blow, lopping off the Roman’s head. The silence of the Zen master who cannot stare down his anger. The silence of life’s carousel and its organ grinder’s music, all the horses riderless yet every ticket sold.

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