Having said nothing all morning
Do we spread our hands on the table,
Palms down, the tea steaming between them,
Knowing no way to measure silence?
Truth has a certain downward slant
Slightly more like gray light falling
Through a December afternoon window
Than the path of a driven chisel.
Neither purposeful nor random,
It follows from antecedents,
The shape and lie of each against each;
As carbon molecules slip
And smear softly as graphite on paper,
Or stack to glint obdurate as diamond.