Frost from people’s mouths, and vapors
like chilled aerosol rolling across a blurred surface,
and wind, a muffled character from offstage
unwinding its repression; now sandals won’t do.
An artist made me hear silence with his
violin; at first, the irritation of a bow bothering
a string – people coughing, dropping pens.
But then ice shards talking? Longer shards
with more between; the breath of dreamers
in the spheres, spectral celebration
and those who ease noise into quiet presence.