ON TIPTOE

 
Always on tiptoe beside you,
I’m cautious of speech.
Your dead aren’t a metaphor,
your words are accumulated silence.
 
Beside you I rise out of my barred self
to new places.
When you have trouble hearing
I hope I’m not missing the mark.
 
The forty years between us
dissipate at your threshold.
Your lines are a gift
uprooted, against its will, from your hands.
 

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