Sometimes the drops of air laugh at our impudent chuckle

and gather themselves into a breath. Sometimes


when the robin stares too long at the kitchen window,

we become her careless dream. Sometimes


the patches of nothing between the rain

know something, too, of waiting. Sometimes


I pinch myself asleep long enough to awaken again

to the resurrection of your scent. Sometimes


the sucking sound when pulling boots up from the mud 
is how I hear your leaving. Sometimes

the one goose not in formation with the others, 
heading where life goes are my thoughts without you. Sometimes

like old leaves pasted back on the living tree 
is the sound of my cracked voice next to your song. Sometimes

like a shower in the lobby with the door open 
is our talk. Sometimes


in the wordless poetry, alone,

is our silence.



3 thoughts on “Sometimes

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