another sigh follows the first
an unvoiced prayer I read once
so prayer piles on prayer to heaven
not so much the worry as the cliched
reaction and response from myself
and others: maybe it’s not true
maybe if the word isn’t spoken
the spirit will not be called
the stroke will remain yet to fall
I sigh yet again worrying
the smallest ache, the slightest
difference into a panalopy of symptoms
the words, all words, are cliché
meaning trails in an icebreaker’s wake
ice fragments jostling for reformation
(Summer 2006)
subtext 