She Stanzalone


I'm glad she's where
she's at.
A little off-center
from where I
pictured her.
But who am I, anyway,
to determine?
I'm just the vermin
in her path
to cleanse the poetry world
of its hideous rash.


It was the pace
at which her mind
was racing
that made us all seem
kind of slow;
languidly dragging our knuckles
across the floor
trying to trace out our muse.


It was the way
she chose her     spacing.
Almost random
but not
that made me
The positioning
of her voice
just precise enough
to claim me inside.


Do you hear me?
I could never let go
of you, darling,
you were much too addicting
a voice.
As if you were spun
from the sun itself
and harvested
into our songs;
the warming tunes
that amidst the noise
we'll hum and hum
'til we're gone.



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