Ingots of Silence
From some foreign mental refinery
melted and molded bricks of stuff
fall into our hands out past iron doors
glowing radiant of light and heat
we build our houses of them
make these endless repairs
nothing stays when we visit others
except this double fiction
of brick-and-mortar mirrors
much like master-slave
the rooms fold in on each other
as a recycled container, the roof settles on them
indifferent to what it contains
wanting always to close up again
to contain nothing, to be just this
emptiness with no history
whenever we come home
we have to put the walls back up
once I just sat on the roof
letting it wait for what it never wants
the folded pile let out a long sigh
we rested in a version of the refinery
at the center of the earth
in its numbered but unimaginable heat
as one of its glowing granular
self-made ingots of silence
The Dog Star 
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