Like a rain I feel but cannot see,
the names of the dead, falling.
Silences I hear between
first names, middle, last
are slivers of empty air between
lines of rain. I want
to be in these tiny silences
that cannot hold their deaths
but join them to all silence —
rests in a piece of music,
the quiet beneath a rock,
the feather on a crow,
beak closed, wings
From Talking Underwater, Wind Publications, 2007. Posted by kind permission of the poet.
Dream-singers, Story-tellers, Dancers, Loud laughers in the hands of Fate— My People. Dish-washers, Elevator-boys, Ladies’…
Now I understand that there are two melodies playing, one below the other, one easier…
Blackberries hang in the darkest creases of the trellis, each dimpled to bursting. The black-eyed…
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