Monday, March 12, 2007

Poem In Transit

How We Are Heard

Everything that travels is a testament to stillness,
even words. Letters march across this page, each
a heavy gray pebble that drown in the darkness
of the eye. What we pretend are shadows are merely
silences, a pause before the next breath,
the next confession.

Wait
for the way your chest rises, falls
like waves across a particular sea, a particular
moonrise. Silver coats your outline, the movement
of hands, fingertips tracing the outline of the body
that could be you, could be a mermaid, a slippery fish.

In the end, what we have is this: another
circle of waxing and waning, another second before
the hands of the clock waver, tremble, one never meaning
to meet the other. Even as your gaze moves
from one line of this poem
to the next
to the
next

you know I am not there.

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