The shortest day gives way
to the longest night.
Of course. The street,
this building, quieter
than usual, perhaps everyone
gone, travelling home,
or just asleep. The hour
is late, maybe the emptiness
woke me, that big, smooth zero,
like a rock of ice. You know
it would float.
That doesn’t make sense,
I know. Of course. But
that doesn’t make it wrong,
either. Harbingers, suddenly
listening to Tom Waits, craving
a racket. There are different
types of silence, some are blue
like holding your breath.
Like an open question,
it contains its own answer.
That broken voice howls out
silent, holy night, drowning
out the thing that is better not asked.
OPTIONAL POETRY 
This is so good
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Thanks!
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“Like holding your breath…” Yes!
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I love this poem, especially the beginning – created a real sense of ambience.
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Thank you!
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Answer the question and you never have to ask it.
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Not the worst idea… 🙂
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