she asks me what use are words to her when
the perfect place has none
and mentions that if you
just separate yourself into
the seasons you become scattered
like a ruined cloister graveyard in the snow
and can begin to see that
poetry is nothing more than
words in a jar
melted wax on your skirt
a poor companion whose words fall short
a wisp of a dead man’s hair found inside
some second-hand coat pocket
and when I find my voice I tell her
that it is a fragile touch
a lantern hanging from a tree
a corridor with doors to the past and
future at either end
and a universe in
twenty lines
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