And so in New York
the miracle of silence
a palace made of it
and time slows
as each second
marked like small salutes
by my old brown clock

In the kitchen
she slices onions
I know by the sound
of the silver blade
as it slides through
singing
down through the banded orb
then stops
hard upon the board

Now she peels
and flakes
I hear the skin of her fingertips
knowing how to
Dinner she's making
a ritual she's enjoying
me the anticipation
in the silence
I hear every move
almost counting
the bubbles rising
in the enamelled pot
as the poor murdered chicken
slow comes to a boil

Water pours
eager from the fawcet
tight from the pipe
and from a source
a long way secret flowing
in the day and night
a glass clinks
the bin top clangs
a cracked bell upon the wall
above below the neighbors hall
How rare it is miraculous
silence in New York

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