My past imperfections intercede
to lay claim to what I can see.
The air between thickens in time
like delirious veils in the wind.
Each word she spoke I heard
as if her fingers on my arm
traced a secret in braille
I was too blind to read.
Now too tired to transform time,
I watch myself as if dead;
the chill pushes through my flesh,
like a rat gnawing in the wall.
Time’s translations fill my silence
with the words neither of us spoke.
(December, 20, 2019)