I seem to be lost in words,

your words, my words.
I’m almost reading,
but between the cadence
of your clock-setting, on the minute sighs
and observations, a time passes
needles, razors are forged and honed
across our peace

of mind, there is no cadence.

Broken needles,
not even intentional needles,
no rhythm or internal dialogues
coexist in the space
between our ears,

a fracture, a near frantic

looking, of both ways, of waiting
for a train of thought, our necks
on the rail,
or the tv channel

to change again, into chaos.

To change, again pausing
long enough for hope and absent
minded desire, long enough
for the turning of pages, in reverse
between syllables, paragraphs, strophe,

spilt words and laughter strains.

Too loud
a prattle, lost in empty words.
Your words, my words, spoken, written,
read, ambivalent, lost repeatedly,
everlasting, long overdrawn

so far as the meaning of our intent

08/14/2005

Posted on 08/14/2005
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