A house just like his mother's, But made of words. Everything he could remember Inside it: Parrots and a bowl Of peaches, and the bright rug His grandmother wove. Shadows also—mysteries And secrets. Corridors Only ghosts patrol. And did I mention Strawberry jam and toast? Did I mention That everyone he loved
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The World Seems…
The world seems so palpable And dense: people and things And the landscapes They inhabit or move through. Words, on the other hand, Are so abstract—they’re Made of empty air Or black scratches on a page That urge us to utter Certain sounds. And us: Poised in the middle, aware Of the objects out there Waiting patiently to be named, As if the right words Could save them. And don’t They deserve it? So much hidden inside each one, Such a longing To become the beloved. And inside us: the sounds That could extend that blessing— How they crowd our mouths, How they press up against Our lips, which are such A narrow exit for a joy so desperate.