Silent

Silent is lying embedded with a newspaper nearby reading neighbor’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.

(Remembering Samuel Beckett’s “absurd” play “Happy Days”)

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