ALEXANDRIA QUARTERLY

LISA ZOU

SONDER

 Laying in the wet grass,
I see how the squares of light

flicker, the shadows of bodies
fading in and out like blurred

panoramas. These buildings
are the sum of a thousand lives,

the tick of the clock, the buzz
of the tube, a girl lost in a labyrinth

of old newspapers.

Yet there are dreamers, wide
awake behind these windows.

Cars are sleepwalking on the
Highway, switching from

lane to lane without deliberation.
There are wedding arrangements and life

sentences and everything in between;
a paradox of winter, the drone of stillness

and flutter of wings. Everything is covered.

Find the distance between surviving
and living. Here. Here. Here.

SILENCE AS AN ART

today, the most curious phenomenon:

the conductor coaxing a melody out of white noise and thought.

an aggressive silence straining the air.
 

somewhere in the room,

a pocket watch ticks and the whole room hears it:

rhythm augmented by coughing

and the whir of machinery.

no longer invisible under a mask of sound.
 

someday, we will hear the music which exists in the waiting.