...the letter killeth, but the spirit giveth life...

Wednesday, February 25, 2015

8. Soon Enough

Plane over the house sounds
like feedback from a hot mic,

or wounded body in bed.
People descend to earth.

Their things descend with them.
At home, finally, the kitchen waits:

In the corner, coffee, quiet,
its maker the noise drain in a tub,

cleared throat before speech.
I have several friends who’ve lately…

“I have no words,” I write each time,
not having to say anything physically,

fecklessly, accompanied by
multiple ums in erratic rhythm.

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