like a confession, cliche at first,
but broken with personal sadness,
and I am honored to carry her voice.
My shoulders are glad she is here,
or there, somewhere,
and my ears value her words,
her history, our shared mystery
of what might have been.
I don't need her praise,
I need her purpose,
and my ears value her words,
her history, our shared mystery
of what might have been.
I don't need her praise,
I need her purpose,
and her poetry
aimed at my brain,
and my heart.
She's got me triangulated,
from her Belgian bookstore,
her raspy voice contrasting
light and shadow.