If only words had been tangible as fingers,
    equal to the familiar lightning
    of touch, or like our footsteps, placed
    one before the other and getting somewhere,
    leave no traces save distance, a fresh view
    of river, the rain evaded one more time.

    Even air is like paper, bears our weight
    on its invisible parchment, stained and
    humid with the day’s confessions. Had
    you looked this deep into the world,
    you’d stir flakes of sweat, skin, specks
    that speak of us, the debris of selves
    mingling into ordinary dust.

    Your fulsome
    syllables, curvaceous
    conversations, husky
    sunlight rubbed raw
    against concrete
    need, the musk of
    tongues imprinted
    on coffee mugs, arouses

    more than heart. I too
    am of this earth, its secret
    tremours, undiscovered
    springs, valleys cleaved
    by streams not of our making,
    one of so many worlds
    in giddy, silent orbit.

    Which is why, the day
    you pulled me along, I fell
    wordlessly forward into motion,
    compelled by the gravity
    of your hand in mine.

20 September 2001   11:57 hours
ny-wtc-2001-09-11 { } chain mail