When my words
spill from your lips,
I’m reminded
that they aren’t
my words
at all.
For every sentence,
every stanza,
every lilting
slanted rhyme,
belongs to the
baffling luster
of happening,
which began
shimmering
some odd 13.8
billion years ago
when a great something
burst forth
from a great nothing.
Enter, Time.
Across our
dimming living room,
you read another poem,
one I wrote
about a midnight drive
now two years
in our rearview,
and the words spilling
from your lips
are ours.
Not just belonging
to you and me,
but to everything
that is, was,
and ever will be.
Time, in his
grand and
ancient churning,
spews the sable ink,
in which
I dip my pen,
in which
I write
to think.
Our notice
forges meaning,
in the midst
of Time’s abyss.
Just as your notice
of these words
makes me
solid and
significant.
pm poetry 