his voice [poetry]

sometimes it comes again to me in a dream

or in the trappings of a too-slow dawn

a fugitive fleeing through aching air

reminiscent of old evenings

it comes into me, into my ear

salubrious as fragrant water

drawn from the depths of a lost wellspring

ghosts of forgotten words quicken docile insides

draw them up into trembling flame

but the water weeps between my fingers

and the agony pools in my throat

until I can no longer cry his name

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3 thoughts on “his voice [poetry]

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