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.
Beautiful