Wednesday, October 1, 2008
Used Poem
Sometimes In Late Evening
When the quiet is the rule, I can
sense
some sounds inside me. Always the
feral
voice of a woman. A woman wild, not
tamed.
Loving her was easy. What is it, I
wonder,
that we had before but have no more?
Why
is it we were one before and are no
more?
It seemed perfect to be alive back
then.
In time, it might be scant memory’s
trace.
But always in quiet, the voice will be
hers.
DNJ
When the quiet is the rule, I can
sense
some sounds inside me. Always the
feral
voice of a woman. A woman wild, not
tamed.
Loving her was easy. What is it, I
wonder,
that we had before but have no more?
Why
is it we were one before and are no
more?
It seemed perfect to be alive back
then.
In time, it might be scant memory’s
trace.
But always in quiet, the voice will be
hers.
DNJ
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