scraps

scraps. pic

 

as we speak

we cling

like partners in a dance

to our very own

alphabet

drawn tight by desire

and we would if we could

make a frieze of the trick

that is language

 

the swollen air we launch

in speech

is full of gifts

and on reflection it is sad

that so many are returned unheard

in the transmission of loss

that only time

in its wise fractions

can attest

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