Dispatch #22

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.