But look away and they haven’t done a thing.
Or look at it, but don’t react, and it is gone.
The vacuum of thinking, or not, is a form of power.
The reaction to a sound never made
admits reality isn’t there, owns
thoughtful pretense, perhaps shame.
Our eyes hear
the wind kick up as dancers shiver,
Snow-like crepe unfurls, denies a need to melt.