“Do we communicate in mirror languages, through some inherent sense of form, in every respect but touch? Do we ever know each other; know who we really are?”
–Susan Howe
I become an echo
To what I wish to hear – –
My voice to your voice
A whispery misdirection:
In case I eavesdrop
Words meant for another,
I worry your lines
Like a scar, a palmistry
Read in a different text,
Weaving new cloth
From unraveled sleeves;
An old fool’s motley hopes
From wilted narcissi
Beside a still pond.
(March 2011)
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