To write of things

… that touch us, is
To touch those to whom we write. The
Sign on the street, the girl on the phone,
The moment on the terrace, the ache
In the bone, the rusty gate that never
Shut, the clothes that she’s outgrown,
The silence when you wake up, the
Peace they’ve never known, the kids
Among the rubble, the indifference of
The drone, the bride, the widow, the
Grandmother, the witch, the virgin, the
Crone, the brother that we laughed with,
The father we heard groan, the sisters whom
We fought with, the longing for the distant,
The wild, the unknown. The grope on the bus,
The leer on the face, the staying after dark,
The quickening of pace, the sea that feels like
Panic, the getting out of the place, the job
That goes to someone younger, the
Hounding of your race, the knowing that
The ageing body puts you outside of
The chase, the lines along your lips
That touch your mouth with grace. These
Things we touch as we write them, those
Readers who see us revealed, seek out
The words that hide them,
Covered, covert, sealed.


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