Illiterate

Your hand upon my arm
Transient like spider’s silk
As you speak to me
Not there, yet there still

I’m lost falling, following
Stray strands of meaning
Weaving from desperate threads
Tattered rags into a motley’s truth

Such small scraps feed me
A casual toss of your hair
A phrase plucked from conversation
Create tremors for days, rattling

Like bones in a cup, an
Augury I cannot read

(February 2011)

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