Tuesday, May 26, 2015

POEM FOR SOLO FLUTE

Touched—but somehow only 
gradually 
by such

soft
and tender 
strains of sadness lingering;

sticky sweet and 
streaked 
across a

dark and lovely
used-
up womb's walls—so empty,

and yet—
so full 
at once!—graceful, thin

as your grandmother's ghost;
but 
touchable—

and rich 
as her taste 

in heavy clothes
and dangling chocolaty 
topaz stones—just to listen!

feels
so much
like falling

in love—though somewhat
alarming

because—you don't know
precisely

or really even
vaguely

with whom.

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