The Tuesday Poem: Quiet

A legion of dogs has passed the window

Is there no watchfulness left

in the ruined couch, the stained glass?

And where did all this quiet come from?

Secretly the house collected it

and releases it now like a slap.

I bite on an apple and nothing happens.

Silence bounds into the kitchen

and lifts its black eyes.

How is it possible

the popped-up toast can sit in the toaster

and not rouse you, the stairs

not explode at the scrape of butter?

Undisputed, unaccompanied

the slices wait.

Where are your ten imploring years?

From foot to foot I shift

while south of here

in unfamiliar territory

your curious hungry ashes scatter,

scour the woodland and the wind

and snatch this quiet from my hands.