Silence is a red macaw that

Deigns to preen its master’s lashes —

Proud in the rebuff.

Silence flies the capsule,

Third joint of the middle finger,

Like the mudra says.

Silence is the keyhole

Among the ivories nonchalant,

“non serviam, you dig?”

All of Gotham hears the poet.

Busses’ doors accordion.

Did it stutter or did it didn’t?

Silence knows its sister,

Knows its father,

Knows it mother,

Knows two languages.

Silence grows like summer grass,

Holds fast to its lover,

Delighting in her fingerprints.

Silence wrote the invitation,

Declaims it on the radio,

Non serviam, it says.