So few are these moments, listening now, late at night, work tomorrow, Opera, a silence again within the spaces, rivers of words find themselves upon the page, three pages to be exact, untitled…
1.
Holding onto children
the fear they will grow
away from you
remote
is as if
stuffing
spun cotton
sugar
into your pocket
to save for another
cold day
2.
I want to hear your words
as pictures
translated
visual
then I can see
your thoughts in between
where your mind stutters
stammers
filling in the gaps
between our language
my hair
now falling
pieces on my arms
I mistake such occurrences for insects
only
age
3.
What happens
when your stories
of stories
have become more familiar
to me
than
to you?
