The night’s face comes out of the empty screen or blank sheet
and watches me at my desk, whispers without moving its lips:
Why ruin this silence we all come back to? or make a mark
where no mark will stay? Lean in, and listen:
and after a while I do, and after an hour or a minute
or a second I place my hands in front of me
and write until the sound of my writing
is something the night’s hands make
and to you who can hear it, and looked up
from your reading, and then back down
at everything which will pass into nothingness,
tell me you can unsee these marks, tell me.
especially like the last couplet…….
Love this one, Jeff. Hearing is easy. But listening, that takes effort.
I can’t unsee this, thank goodness. Wonderful.
Wonderful poem, Jeff!