Thursday, June 10, 2010

Bl. Henry Treviso

this night’s journey

is over. this straw shines

like the body you left behind.

these words don’t mean

anything to you. I write them

over and over and you can only

trace them with the wide plain

of your fingertips.

sometimes you say that

you can feel mountains,

or lakes, or those sudden

sweeps of breath that make you

stop on a word.

keep your fingers there.

your head rests on the limb

of a tree. the rings hum

in your presence.

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