Between the Lines
The sweet whiteness
of unsaid words
otherwise left too little
the space in between
tongues and touches
words trying to
escape the pull
of cheap metaphors
and bad spelling
poetry avoiding the truth
and dodging the glances
of those who know
The sweet whiteness
of unsaid words
otherwise left too little
the space in between
tongues and touches
words trying to
escape the pull
of cheap metaphors
and bad spelling
poetry avoiding the truth
and dodging the glances
of those who know
to think
think they know
I’m picking up traces of myself
between languages
and amidst the
soundless dance
that is upon all of us
the fresh smell of snow
mingles with my thoughts
making them
roll onto their tired backs
to stare at the sky
and the impatient passing
of live squeezed into images
mixed into the white
of my eyes
changing sound into
the smell of
freshly cut grass
think they know
I’m picking up traces of myself
between languages
and amidst the
soundless dance
that is upon all of us
the fresh smell of snow
mingles with my thoughts
making them
roll onto their tired backs
to stare at the sky
and the impatient passing
of live squeezed into images
mixed into the white
of my eyes
changing sound into
the smell of
freshly cut grass