But even to breathe

is to speak, and silence

is a protest against

the insufficiency of silence,

and simply to turn

toward town, to walk

down your own street

late in the day is to say

a thing you’re not sure of

and hear your heartbeat

marking time, and your steps

scraping the ground, making

a faraway echo—a sound

of vigorous scribbling, as if

you were scrawling your name

on everything around you.