Dispatch #169

“The Practice”

                      The Practice 


Panic, the speechless 
hour, blooms 
in dust—

a spent web
vibrating
in a corner.

Where am I 
without a word
to hold against
the day, 

to witness 
transparency
as prayer
and ballast.

Afternoon dark 
as late dusk.
I listen 
to thunder

hollow 
the particular 
silence of hail 

raining 
against glass. 

My mind
finally removed
from the room

dissolves
in outside sound.