“A poem should not mean, but be.”
Archibald MacLeish
The chime exhumes a single note.
It is your voice.
A nightingale sings in bird
speak. My ears squint, I sing.
Ghosts touch each other unaware.
Eyes and words do the same.
Every night dreams are sacrificed
to the sun. The moon is proof.
Two images collected in a puddle.
Mine above. Yours below
a pale shadow buried in mud.
In my eyes, a tinge I never saw before.
DQ 4/8/7
