Not easy, burgling silence;
that old house at the edge of town
where time takes solace on its own; miser.

But it’s better then grafting at the noise factory;
so I wait for the gloaming,
stake it out, concealed in the overgrown garden.

It can take days, weeks, all weathers;
a vow of intent to commit…
hoping for an opening, a loose latch.

Once in, there’s a holiness to it;
everything paused, made precious, pearled,
by the brief absence of time.

I steal a silver sonnet and leave sharpish;
snapping off a wet black bough
with petals on it.