what the heart hears of a cold night


in quiet nights along the curve of drafts
unseen,   where ghosts I imagine carry out
their invisible lives,   from that half-real
falling-asleep dream,    I feel the whisper
your voice saying my name from far away   —

sublingual?     perhaps.    and a brush of your lips
across my memory,   my lips reflexive
kissing across time as though such might reach
you where you are   . . .   gone from my side,   gone,   gone
as gone gets and yet a hint of you always
brings unexpected smiles from strangest hints
and tricks of memory.          who am I to call
out,   call back?   call your name to fickle winds?
sometimes my tongue,   voice   —   gone as me from you   . . .

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3 thoughts on “what the heart hears of a cold night

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