Places to be quiet

(1)
Slow water dripped ten million years into towers and catacombs
Into traps for the dead traveler
And me, almost smothered on the rocks everywhere
But determined to be here now and here then
To feel the human sacrifice in the air
Years of blood to keep the universe in balance
Years of youths sent underground
I listen, and these youth’s chatter bounces off the hushed, wet earth
Their boys, Pennsylvania, tans and the things she said
All of this is not a part of Xibalba
Only
Ferman’s paddle, soft and even, like the breathing of a mother
And the water drops, moving from the ceiling to our lips, knuckles, down our backs
Each one supposed to be bring luck
We are so lucky today
(2)
Beers and ice and waving to lost friends
They interrupt the singer with their cries of love or biggest hits
We’ve all collected here for a Sunday night
We’re here for these speakers of some truth to dance and delight to
But when the songs get low and slow and shivery
The crowd’s hum rises like a flock of turkey buzzards
And they can’t feel the singer’s voice
They can’t hear how it gets bigger as it sinks into his chest
I wish he would sing to me alone
Not because I crave some importance I don’t posses
But just for how dead-silent I would stay
Listening to the singer