Monday, June 2, 2014


The words scurry across the page,
Like rats deserting a ship
I run after them,
I know only a handful I need,
Only a few, to give shape to you.
How at sunrise I think of you,
How at twilight you are still with me.
How at midnight you giggle,
Asking me not to hang about your words.
Only a few would be enough,
And yet, they slip off the margins
like sand through fingers.
Finally,I find them gasping,
Near the kitchen sink,
Pleading to let them be.
For they confess,
They are too weak to paint,
How at sunrise I still think of you.