, , , , , , , , ,


The string between the cans we used to talk
through snapped and hit me in the eye today

knocked out the scale that enlarged the speck
in yours to timber size & now I find I’m lost.

If I can’t see your flaws or hear the mutters
that once passed for conversation, what remains?

I hold an empty tin, a bit of string;
the tintinnabulation in my ear has ceased.

I catch no words, am cheat of thought beyond
the possibility of shapes of things to come.

A tune I used to hum is gathering
momentum on my lips, I feel the buzz

surrounding me of poets who sing only
of love’s presence, met one yesterday and

couldn’t think of what to say. Too fluent I’d
become in retro-specks. So now’s the time,

it’s obvious, betrayed of thought, to learn
a brighter tongue. So far, I know the words

for get and give, for let and live, and while
the space between us grows and falls away

I witness something tender that accommodates
and has no fear to speak aloud my name.


© Elaine Stirling, 2013