poems as hand- and foot-holds on a glass mountain

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

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