Not In Word

what I know, still
is the sound of your silence
the breath, suspended
trembling on the diving board
of a cautious tongue
your's like cursive ink
wound about the scrolls
of sunken letters
naming me by esoteric shades
and totems of the spirit
throwing kissed stones
into nomadic waters
when my body is too far

 

there has come the portent
of our fierce subtleties
the kindred shapes in slumber
or the pace
of your candle's satiated wicking
and the gravity of broken bells
borne upon this yoke

 

yet my ears angle
only to the moist murmuring
conjured by the storms
the hollowness of reed
possessed by the moaning animus of wind
or whispered on the rustling grain
like paper castanets
in belief they could deliver tale
of your own soles' odyssey
back to the anchor
of my iron shores

there is more
but only, not in word