When Words Fail
You are the red bandana
tied around my mouth,
so it can’t talk about hands,
yours and mine.
I am a dry fountain pen
thirsty for ink,
for morning and night,
for everywhere between.
We are rocks
tumbling in the riverbed,
smoothing ourselves
to lie in quiet in other laps.
Where will our feet land
after the days of rain,
after our daily bread,
after everyone else is gone?
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