#105

September 23, 2011 § 4 Comments

I come with bags and bags of paper luggage
Which is never useful if you don’t travel by paper train and I find
Paper porters in those stations are pretty hard to come by
I have suitcases full of disassembled sentences
Not fragments, broken thoughts
but scattered magnets on a paper fridge
Poetry in motion, waiting
For words simply not coined yet

I come with envelopes full of letters sent and unsent
The handwritten, un-spellchecked smudged and smeary kind
With tear-stained spines and smiles I still draw (even by hand)
Sideways : )

I come with heavy, heavy
wire bound memoirs of days
that laughed like kings and fled like thieves
that ran like wild horses and snapped like maestro hands
and rubber bands

I come with two varnished boxes
Of wilted and petals wrapped in wax paper
(Without ever a scent
of romance), love letters written
only ever in crayon, and paper dolls of people
Who wouldn’t recognize their likeness
Interpreted through my eyes

I come with pockets full of foolish memories
Tied in paper chains
Words spoken and unspoken that hold me, sometimes
Captive in conversation
When everything I long to say masquerades as silence
Longing to live on the page

But I come with beautiful, beautiful
Handwriting
From years of practice – practice
Makes permanent

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