Thursday, April 30, 2009

920 W Liberty, #2

The wind is open.

An age of letters has fallen
near the doorstep.

Words can only be folded
Seven times in half,

While your mouth
Can only listen when it is tired.

The birds get in the way
Every time I try to speak,

And the car makes no noise
In the snow.

A life is lived
Everywhere but a home,

While your mouth
Kisses only when it is hungry.

The kitchen is lonely.

The spoons beg a touch,
Plates ache in the cupboard.

The edges of talk
Are strewn with jagged tender,

A description is never enough
To contain the meaning

Which runs rampant
In every home,

And no one can keep
An eye on it.

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