In silence,
I hear the scratching of pen
I know words form within
but don't emerge;
his mouth is still.

In absence
darkness falls;
the words that died
within his barren throat
erupt, torrential:
Beautiful honest blades
of ink
which need the paper's pulpy strength
to find the wave
to ride upon his tongue.

And so the silence breaks,
the blades slash silence into ribbons
And these he wraps around me
gently, boldly,
his words of love
the sweetest warm embrace;
I think I'll linger here,
within this silence.


5/1994