Perhaps it’s my friendship with Dick,
who watches and listens from his wheelchair
but cannot speak, has never spoken,
that makes me aware of the daily
unintrusive presences
of other mute watchers and listeners.
Not the household animals
with their quick bodies—they have cry
and gesture as a kind of language—
but rooted lives, like trees,
our speechless ancestors,
which line the streets and see me,
see all of us. By August
they’re dark with memories of us.
And the flowers in the garden—
aren’t they like our children were:
tulips and roses all ears,
asters wide-open eyes?
I don’t think the sun bothers
with us; it is too full
of its own radiance. But the moon,
that silent all-night cruiser,
wants to connect with us noisy breathers
and lets itself into the house
to keep us awake. The other day,
talking to someone else 
and forgetting Dick was in the room,
I suddenly heard him laugh.
What did I say, Dick? You’re like the moon, 
an archive of utterance not your own.
But when I walk over to you,
you turn into the sun,
on fire with some news
of your own life. Your fingers search
the few, poor catchall words
you have, to let me glimpse
the white heat trapped inside you.