Silent is lying embedded
With a newspaper nearby
Reading neighbour’s eyes.
Silent is a teacup nearby
With hands in the mound,
A slurp unheard to mouth,
To dregs of continent maps.

Silent is Beckett awaiting
In mound our non-arrival.
(We are no words but times)
Silent is touching a heart
A hand on a chest ticking
Below a mound, our times.

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