Tuesday, July 27, 2010


An almost white, whispered
rumor of you is all
I had to go on. So
much for insufficient

beginnings. Word of you
had been heard escaping
through the usual cracks
in what we remember

of parting's sweet sorrow.
Under every surface
there is, of course,
a second surface we

can never quite get to.
I will look for you there.

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