One of those poems I come back to occasionally. It changes each time: the words, the meaning and the atmosphere. Some poems defy you; that's good.
Were you going to write me a love-letter?
Were you going to write me a love-letter?
Did your fingers falter above the keys?
Was there the cacophony of grid-lock on the
page,
lines of off-duty taxis:
words refusing to carry love?
At such a juncture, I, in the past, have
let my fingers
tap-dance away from a love-letter,
tap a stammer,
morse to garble the unwritable truth.
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