A to Z. All of them.
The letters in my words drift away, unmoored,
torn away, taken down, by a rip current. I have twenty6 to work in to something to say,
but they, like me,
are em ty. The words are full of nothing.
Everything I say needs these lost twenty6, and they are gone, and I am mute.
I am looking at us looking at one another. We are wondering if we are of the
We are. All of us. It’s terrifying and we cling to one another and all we are is not all we are, somehow.
Take a picture of me twice. I am the dark and the light.
I am the empty gun falling to the ground; I am the casing bouncing. I am the locked door in an elementary school. (When did that happen? My school was as open as the wind.) I am the child’s hand on my classmate’s shoulder, following her to the woods away from the school. I am the eternal memory of her shoulder and my sweaty palm clutching her and feeling of her little perfect dress.
I am the old man now looking at my hands and the oddness of this life and I really have not a word to say.