Listen for Me

December 19th, 2015 § 0 comments

Your hands,
They came here without you.
This poem came here without you.

I spend all week thinking about your hands
Muttering life into reticent freckles
Fumbling how not held, not cupped
to one ear, listening.

Bedlaced, head-cocked, divining
your sound by distance.

To be sure it’s just the house
settling.

When I say your hands are the
open road and you’re its traveler,
I’ve just given you my name.

This poem came here without you,
Your hands met me at the door.

I’m the noise I listen for.

 

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