Crossing the Lot

Filled by the almost
Emptiest moments—
The sunny parlor,
The abandoned road,
Small waves on the shore—

It’s actually not
That there’s nothing much
Happening, although
Quieter’s better—
And natural light.

The core is the lack
Of conversation,
Spoken, recorded,
In black ink or glowing,
Or written on air.

Each tranquil release
From the relentless
Exchanges of . . . of,
Well, what exactly
Is the greater mind?

There’s no metaphor
That encapsulates
Such information,
But outside it’s peace,
Momentarily.