If you wrote there wouldn’t be this poem.
So in the end the page in filled anyhow -
For absences
One is given words, for talk one can borrow
Melodies heard perhaps years ago on shellac,
And let the needle scratch its way through
Dust.

If you wrote there would be no steady blip
Of longing in the heart’s seismograph -
For loneliness
There is always ample time, for these vistas
Of dawn and dusk there is always light or
Nightfall. For you now there is this poem,
This one.




My Poems