Within these moments, poems form

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?

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