You would think that tall gestures
would slip
it into art.
But it simply takes
its course.
You would think that clever metaphors
would dream
it into pain.
But it churns in a hush
wherever it is.
You would think that longed-out wails
would dissolve
it into enigma.
But it lives on
(so they say).
It’s unison
gone counterpoint.
It’s mutual strokes
rendered silent.
It’s that inner something
that seems misplaced
in a way
that makes it more present
than ever.
It’s the most familiar
gone muffled.