It was the tin time when the grass turns brown
and ghosts rise up to join the clouds.

You lay like an argument against the sky
and listened to the flies’ diminuendo.

Oh, how they soloed in the cool October air!
Oh, how they testified against the plaster!

A door closed gently down the hall
and the furnace blew a blast of air.

You turned to the light on the distant hills.
How like a page from heaven it fell

into the oven of darkness. “What an oven
of darkness am I,” you buzzed to the flies above.

The flies, the light, the closing door—
so much news to tell that can’t be told.

Who is to tell and how to tell it? The stars
were singing and the darkness blooming.

My deep deaf ear lay ringing beside you.
There was no speech then or now, nor were there words.