I can hear the whispers
between your talking.
Doug Kilmister
The book cracks open;
pages, thin like the Bible’s,
rustle at my finger tips.
Letters whisper secrets 
like stories passed
between mothers and daughters.
The slurred sound clusters
coalesce onto layers of myth.
Separate patterns laid 
over patterns like lace.
My finger marks the word
as eyes close to think:
candles flicker shadows;
the past presents the future.
I return, shoulder
bent, into the book.
(Summer 1990)

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