Tuesday, September 14, 2010

A Poem Speaks

(before your tutored eyes
by habit taught decode
this script so swiftly would)

Read me with your lips
as child's tongue licks syllables
to melt away into
its core of sense.

As written I am silent, history.
As spoken I happen, an event.

Whose words I am beg entry
thru your whorled gate, to be
the wind's song in chambers
of who sent me,

as echoes in your mind
of the geste.

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