The quiet comes lightly, sifting at first as sand might,
or in this part of the world, like hay-topped dirt
filled with thirst.
The quiet comes, and is as quickly overrun
by a commercial, by advice, by a flashing
The quiet, inside whom the voices live, behind whom
the images, the long spark of creativity.
But so much has already been credited,
renowned, commoned, created. Long lines
we stand in,
not for a shot at the oboe or the canvas,
but to relieve ourselves in plastic booths
filled with other’s excrement.