And if tonight, again, I dream of you, Thoreau—
If tonight I dream of you & rain, if rain should choose
To hammer out its shape upon the water
In the likeness of itself, or the likeness
To which it too conforms,
Forms only a kind of prolonged static, holding—
The sky in the homogeneous frequency
Of white noise—this tiny boat between us now,
Still taking water, tacking N/NW
In another form of silence . . .
If tonight, our voice lacks strength enough to speak,
And only motion forms from our lips,
Strike a paddle against the boat, strike the paddle
And we'll elicit the sound of birds, the titmouse
And squirrel, the woodchuck, now heavy with winter—
Strike your paddle as if to speak . . . speak now
Dear silence, dear me . . . speak now
In the likeness of your voice, or the likeness
To which it conforms . . . say something, anything,
And I will begin bailing the water.
