If I were a book of poetry —
So well loved,
So well thumbed-through —
I could drop a page at any time
Right into your lap.

And startled, you’d take it up
And my words would fill your dry eyes like tears.
And there’d be only the slightest hesitation
As decades fastened with crumbling glue gave way:

The sound of a single feather pulling loose,
The satisfaction of wood hammer on silk string,
A sliver sliding free

A sentence between your fingers,
Oiled thumbprint two-thirds up the page
A few words to hold your tongue,
Caught between teeth and barely moving lips

In absence or silence,
Pages unwritten, blank in my heart

Leave a Reply

Fill in your details below or click an icon to log in:

WordPress.com Logo

You are commenting using your WordPress.com account. Log Out /  Change )

Facebook photo

You are commenting using your Facebook account. Log Out /  Change )

Connecting to %s