An Answer in Sonnet

‘Tis Silence moves its fingers ‘cross my skin;
it searches, tenuous and then precise,
across my cheek, my neck, my nape, my chin.
‘Tis Silence, fingers stiff and cool as ice.

‘Tis Silence has me fast within its beak;
it chews and chokes and cranes toward the sky.
‘Tis Silence crowned the lord above the streets.
It found me in the city, through the wires.

I speak and shout, yet all around my feet
is Silence spreading blankets for a meal.
Reclined to rest and sun on clean white sheets,
and setting out the wine, the bread, the veal.

So answer! How has Silence found me here?
Or answer anything at all, my dear.