Whole, half and emptying
history needs all its hollows,
pleasure and pain alike
in recesses where dust won’t go.
Smooth pockets that make a second
heart for holding sun and silence,
all that fits past clasp and key.
Say the unwritten is unerasable,
not true, never having been
more than out of mind, a sound,
a hint or wish to know
how to cast a jigsaw of the sky.
In the columned quiet
of monuments, tombs and temples,
you wonder what was left unsaid