But have you ever heard such quietness
as aftermath: senility of fight,
diminuendo truth, that slow regress?

June. Whole world “can’t breathe.” Vicarious
sufferers. All swallowed fire. Bright.
But have you ever heard such quietness

as four months later? Protests in undress.
White badge of courage earned. Click mute on cries.
Diminuendo truth (that slow regress).

My country ’tis of thee, the passiveness
of fast-expiring advocacy. Writhe,
but have you ever heard such quietness?

A rage emerges not against unrest,
not plunder, not police, but toward the quiet
diminuendo truth, that slow regress.

Before things fall apart, let lips confess
that order is an earning, not a right.
But have you ever heard such quietness

as withdrawal from one’s own damned mess?
Complicity forgotten, that we might
diminuendo truth. That slow regress

is an orchestra tuned to a stringless
violin—soundless movements, music mimed.
But have you ever heard such quietness

as peace, the reigning of justice? Noiseless,
lacking nothing, where need is an old lie . . .
Diminuendo truth—that slow regress—

does not live here, though it always crouches,
and light will guard the gate, and ask at night:
“But have you ever heard such quietness,
diminuendo truth, that slow regress?”

Image: By Josep Molina Secall, via Unsplash.