nowhere can one escape to silence:

not the city, with the constant running

of rubber tires on asphalts and the drum

of voices both laughing and crying 

nor in the country, where wind brushes

against grain and the barn yard animals

make themselves heard into the night

not even in the forest, where the brook

will babble incessantly, praying for a

bird to chirp out a response to its speech

no, everywhere one goes the noise 

of life bursting at the seams with color

is audible and is calling us to drink

so drink life to the lees and be drunk

and in a stupor at the city, the country

the woods and the sun rising endlessly