We inherit the spaces between every word.
So, we keep sake of every keepsake and end inside
each letter, crunched between every line
hunched as if we’ll lose all attempt at loving them,
as if anything is ever lost. Each poem is a repository
of all the past poems read, and we keep them everywhere:
between each sheet of paper, cradled in every book, nook, cranny —
and between two distant words that might have been just a space away,
we find ourselves compressed between each solid T and smooth S
and I guess how trust becomes a pun ready to be forgotten,
I’ll just surrender thistles, or perhaps whistles. We have spaces
for rhyme, and meter (and how our every child shall speak
in pentameter, shall understand the iamb, trochee) to tell us
more about the sound of we, and move around our house of poetry
and the infinite rooms, spaces within. Oui, oui, and let all the orphans in.

18 June 2012
with Wendy who lost her boys


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