THE GRATE

Over time, those sharing the steam grate

Where St. Jerome sleeps on cold nights

Have become minor variants. Their Latin

Has an Illyrian lilt. Wrens and cats

Keep track of them. They’re working,

When sober, on translating

Silent certainties into quiet doubts.

SO

Quiet sits on the porch;

Silence fixes the roof.

Quiet has a map;

Silence keeps a diary.

Quiet pours the wine;

Silence drinks it.

SOME GIRLS I USED TO KNOW

Silence carries a flute she never plays
She wears dark clothes and smokes cigarettes
Which materialize in her hand already lit.
Quiet, who is her much younger sister,
Has never quite mastered the trick;
She turns her wrist just so, but finds
An allen wrench there, or a Number 4 pencil.