Silence, broadly seething tranquility,
at the base of this waterfall,
skyscraper tall,
where King Kong crying down the watershed upon you,
in a vertical river without float potential,
this rhythm of poundings,
featuring gaps for breathable air,
it is a tongue lashing
of constant heavy wetted down wardrobe
as if the worst of heavy winter wear,
soaked and saturated dragging you down,
gravity upon you is having this hissy fit,
all of viscosity is cursing you in its passing,
the audience of smacking applause
is smash-clapping all around you,
go ahead, take a bow and drown,
you, having seemingly unexpected visual empathy
for salmon on their difficult upstream return to spawn,
you continue standing up in the down spite
as a show of fervor for being counted upon,
yet, silence is in you
from far beyond what wet abounds.
This sweet science of silence,
is grabbing at your throat
by the sweet rush of your every next breath,
subtle, sacred, silence . . .
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