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Those You've Known
January 5, 2012
There is no touch
in talk or taste;
Maybe in sight
-but not quite-
of how the words
ripple
s p r e a d
out like fans
and scatter lily-reds
around your toes.
But canyons never tend to close,
no corners meet and bend and fold
the cooling iron on a board,
and a bridge slumped over ford
still the same; just as before.
And there are never hands in words
to fasten tight between the gaps
blanketing the sigh and gasp.
There is no poem in the words
because in silence bodies speak
Hearing most with nothing heard-
let us touch in silent word.
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