what is the sound of one hand clapping?


take a bucket rasping across the bottom of a well, the whisper
of friction when fingertips lick the tender bellies of dumplings. 

add the hush beneath an owl's drooping wings, the murmur of
sand urging on little waves, a dash of lilting landscapes at dusk.

measure out a sliver of breath meandering through goosebump
valleys, seven sighs of a silver ring left behind in the dark.

capture the silent shifting of continents, clouds; echoes
of things that go bump in the night, the suction of tired air.

place all this in a bowl shaped like a perfect moon.  let it stew
in a room whose doors don't remember the meaning of open.

baptise a spoon with spring rain, use it to stir counterclockwise
at the crack of dawn until you stop believing the hands of time.

it is the sound that reverberates through your silenced head
when a rooster attempts to crow and nothing rises but dust.  
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