No Answer

You kneel, or sit, or close your eyes.
It makes no difference.

The room stays as it is
chair, table, light going on
without instruction.

You begin speaking inward,
to the one who answers back
in your own phrases,
your own small turns of hope.

Nothing interrupts.
No voice arrives from elsewhere.
Only the familiar drift
of sentences you have used before,
worn smooth by need.

It feels like movement
because words are moving.
It feels like help
because you are listening.

But outside, the day proceeds
unconsulted.

Cars pass.
Someone locks a door.
A man lifts a box, sets it down.

And here, inside,
you continue the exchange
no one can refuse,
no one can confirm,

mistaking the echo
for reply.