“The longer a poem, the weaker the impression that it has been dictated from above: Heaven is not verbose.  The more you talk, the more you lie.”–Vera Pavlova

When I am overly verbose,

I am trying to convince myself,

or my angels that I am worth

their undying devotion.

That, or I’m trying to validate

my reason for being

to unrealized eyes

living in the back of my head.

When I am silent,

I am like the cat

who fluently models

Chekhov’s explanation of grace

as some definite action accomplished

in the least number of movements.

I’m pretty sure if Chekhov and the cat

were in the kitchen together

and Chekhov were explaining his definition,

in so many words,

the cat, remaining still,

would yawn and close its eyes.

Some poems, teasing verbosity,

don’t go anywhere,

yet simply lapse

into the waiting cradle

of silence.