August 21, 2017

Don't write until

the silence speaks,

Lax said. So I wait,

looking at this light.

August 20, 2017

What we hide

in this chatter

about the weather.

All that's gone

wrong, all that

will go. What

you fear does

not mark my

shadow and

what worries

me does not

mark yours. And

still the rain

comes, or doesn't.

To your silence

I add my own.

August 19, 2017

What we leave is

silence all the way

to the farthest star.

As much as we have

loved, nothing holds.

Would that we had

learned to let go.

August 18, 2017

If the poem has your

lover's breasts in it,

the room should smell

of cinnamon. The light

should be honeyed,

the shadows long,

and the curtains restless.

Somewhere far off a child

will be crying

out. He will be looking

for home. He will be

calling for you.

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ISSN 2470-7775 (print)