few people become silent at the thought that
a good listen is where the path it wants to tread ends
when you swallow something
as you type
walking over the wooden floor
even without wearing anything, your feet bare
toilet flush
with a grumble as a preamble
the clickclickclick taken for granted, anything except
the sound blasting off from your computer's speakers

a swish-hoo repeated multiple times a day
your raindrop patterned curtain pleading
what have we become
or an absence thereof
half me, no you, extra frothing
random number generator
like a broken keyboard spewing out qwertys

silence is a demanding thing
arbitrary, maybe not
if you listen to it

salt installation by motoi yamamoto

No comments:

Post a Comment