the whine of the wind against cracked glass
the whisper of a nighttime candle
the wave of the hand as it makes its pass
round a clock
without a name.
Sick with desires in cold november
left in the wiles of snow
the moon tracing words I can’t remember
writing on ink
with old, yellowed paper.
The whine of the breeze silence the light
plunging my eyes into frigid, black water
banishing word and wave with the night
till I stand and escape
running ‘cross a sea of paper
Paper cuts bleed my feet in a scream of desperation
every word written by my passing
a secret lost in reclamation
till snow and moonlight steel the nerves
turn blood to nails of ice
and crucified am I too sweet November
my soul too, too-neatly sliced
from a body lost in the flow of time
forever spinning like an escaping Dime
till the whine of a wayward wind
snuffs out the whispers of light
which would banish secret and shame
within a soul’s valiant fight
through a clock
without a name.

2 thoughts on “

  1. lovely, lovely flow…. a tear appeared… so long a wait… it doesn’t happen often when you reach an 83rd year… a cherished love-letter… blessings on you and yours… (my father’s 1897 passport photo graces my blog…)

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