True, our converse a stranger is to speech;
– Henry David Thoreau ‘Walden’ [poem addressed to Walden Pond] 3 June 1838

we speak with no compunction
and eavesdrop on our thoughts as if our gods
mumbled in the minds that
worshipped them

there is no weight, heft, balance, natural
wisdom, just good-ole-boy bull in a hospital
where no ripe pussy smells
and death is all around

and in the night an afterburner
awesome rewinder
radio rescinded, it’s
in the round as in inevitable, your face pressed into it