When what we have is the absence

of words, let me tell you
I have tried to find
fixtures to fill the gaps laid between us:
corridor, coffee shop, library – landscapes
supplanted with stone, shared
sips, and spines
older than our own, only
to later see how I have nothing left
to give. Only this silence,
and a memory: watching the first slits of sun
wiping the world anew.

The only productive thing I managed to make the entire day despite trying to write a story, revise another, and start a poem.

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I said I _____ but I _______

Two different things:

The world unfolds in a dream and unfurls like a thousand white doves casting shadows out to a sea one bright morning, no – it was night – filled with snow and specks of light, the world unfolds, ends, turns in on itself, against itself, into itself, patching its body in ways unimaginable, islands sinking in silt, buildings bursting at their concrete seams and wood winding like the whorl of a finger – all secrets, all secrets – in ways that sing instead of see, in ways that sigh and seek through sound- the last of the senses left when the world unfolds and I stand here waiting for the familiar loom of your shadow edging from the last corner at the edge of the world unfolding over and over and over

/

Because really, _________ do you _________ from ________? How can I _______ you what I ________ to ________; _______, there is ________, so please _________ at what I ________ for ____. It’s not ______, it’s ______.

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