How can we know each other if we don’t know ourselves?
Between these sweet, holy, terrifying glimpses, how?
Into each narrow crevice and wide chasm go the stories we tell.
By lip and by eye we fill, by wrinkle and tongue.
O dear one, maybe this flower will do, this shout ’cross the pond.
This deep love in the dark night of our blind spaces.
Categories: New Poems & Pieces