There are moments of stillness,
silence,
when
the only thing happening is myself.
The
sound of a distant wheeling hawk
is
a comma separating nothing from nothing.
The
empty syntax of solitude
is
as easy as light rain falling,
as
morning sun painting leaves,
patches
of summer grass
with
no sound at all.
I
am a moment of naked now,
untroubled
by the frivolous companions
of
before and after, why or how.
I
am an atom
in
some vast expanding universe
moving
towards something or other—
I
don’t know what.
If
my presence is ever demanded on stage,
I
will slowly rise and say,
“My lord, he has arrived,”
and
then return to sit in the wings
and
be one of many varied things.
~William Hammett
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