Poetic
sitting
in the corner
of a pub
I write vows
and eulogies
I speak
of the dead
visiting
the departed
speaking of love
waxing of life
on the breath
of a baby
I take minutes
of hours
I wrap my hands
in cheesecloth
stained with black
my fingernails
have loosened
from their beds
life passes through
my pen, surging
and ebbing
with each tragedy
or celebration
I read lips
hear tones
watching from afar
the faces
but unable
to touch
the life in them
|