One folding chair in the circle, facing
the same empty center, is filled
by someone different, not so much in dress
as in his or her relationship
to silence: easier.
It may be a bearish man;
an elder, seldom motherly; a girl
who somehow weds officialdom and kindness;
an intent, colorless being. In whom
a tear exists that is never shed:
the grail. One who has taken refuge
in hatred looks at that figure, thinks
I will make you live the way I live
but fails to act, till even boredom fades.
One who has sheltered in silence yearns
to hear that person say what can’t be said,
and see it dance or grovel in the center.
And one who can only talk
and talk about the unbearable talks
when called on; what’s different
is not the fact of speech but that it ends