Dispatch #43
Last Word
Last Word
At the far end
of night, locked
in winter’s
rhythm:
a colorless
thrum circling
the room, a draft
whistling through
a window.
This inwardness
measures
the distance
between memory
and breath.
A lifetime
spent
transcribing
silence—
nothing, finally,
to show for it.
Very poignant, but it is difficult for me to 'like' the finality and emptiness it expresses when I know how that feels. Praying for you.