Monday, January 19, 2015



When she speaks I hear
Her differently from someone
Who might say the same,
And she will speak
And I’ll enjoy hearing.
She can’t be reduced
To her implications.

She never stood away.
I heard her with my eyes
Even when I failed to catch
Her words, she speaks so softly
And more so as the day wears on.
She likes verbal rules
Which I burst listening.

This is intermittent,
Mario Lanza at thirty-eight,
Lord Byron at thirty-nine.
I’ll stop listening
When she leaves the room,
Resisting whatever arguments
The blackness has, and night.

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