Sounds we can identify without moving:
smokestack in evening, skirt, hair.
The street wrapped in light like a ribbon.
Sounds we must lift our heads to see:
smokestack in evening, skirt, hair.
Sometimes this is what keeps a man from drowning:
the belief that he will not drown.
Sometimes it doesn’t matter what he believes.
Here in the half-light, I see two of everything.
I know the distance between two points is greatest.
Whistle for yes. Hum for no.
I’ll take silence to mean anything is possible.