After Paz

Words sifted through
a pail of pebbles.
My mind overrun
by thoughts unleashed.
Day and night split
by a seam through
which dusk travels.
I write letters to
faded memories,
to resentments
and their knives.
Words as scattered
as the voices of
many songbirds.
One page isn’t enough
but two are too many.
Words. Voices.
Memories hid in dark
corners, behind bookshelves.
Wait for them until
they pull you between
past and present.


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