by Rob Faivre, faculty
The quiet of no computers
The quiet of electricity
The quiet of snowy streets under streetlights at 5 AM, unplowed streets, the little circles, the spheres and cones of sifted light
The quiet of unlocked doors and locked doors alike
The quiet of someone sleeping in the other room
The quiet of the upstairs neighbor's dog, settled on his blankets
The quiet of the small city before sunrise, clerks and baristas, bakers and dishwashers, cops and yoga teachers
The quiet of imminent commerce and all its disquiet
The quiet of a far-off train between crossings
The quiet of the interstate, no doubt with commuters tuning their satellite radios, no doubt with truckers rolling 18 wheels and heavy loads in the center lane
The quiet of ports and shipping containers, the quiet of the ocean, its depths, its varied and rising surface
The quiet of Antarctica, between icefall, glaciers about to calve icebergs
The quiet of icebergs the size of Connecticut
The quiet of lost whales, ghost ships, plastic islands
The quiet of jets overhead, pilots and passengers sensing sunrise and specific destinations
The quiet of satellites, orbiting debris, space stations, moons
The quiet of Mars, the fading rings of Saturn, the probe at Ultima Thule
The quiet of my own bloodstream, brainstem, bowels
The quiet of Walt Whitman, Adrienne Rich, Budbill, Ikkyu, Gibran, Neruda, Rukeyser, other chroniclers of quiet and disquiet
The quiet at the end of these lines
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