Everything we hold between
Let Me Read
Let me read to you, the words lifting off
the page to fall between the hours from my
mouth, the muted squeals of afterschool children
outside the window, the paw-shaken cat passing
along the rain-spent fence, the porcelain cup
steeping silence in sleeves of still black tea.
Let me read to you, the small stories that whisper
how grief seeps into the bones over and over,
how the days slip so quickly from our grasp,
how when what passes remains passed forever,
as it should be, how hard that is to get wrapped
around, how a moon in Paris is like no other.
Let me read to you, your hair curled Raphael
about your clock-laden face, the pictures in
sound that mute the minutes that live there,
while the house settles and the child sleeps
a room away hearing all, the rustle of blanket
when the passage turns darkly and cricket-hushed.
Let me read to you, the galaxy all ours, no
place to be before dreams overtake us, history
on its own now, the weight of worlds giving
way to what we do here, to what we speak
from the inside here that emerges to thrive on
the outside there of everything we hold between.
the page to fall between the hours from my
mouth, the muted squeals of afterschool children
outside the window, the paw-shaken cat passing
along the rain-spent fence, the porcelain cup
steeping silence in sleeves of still black tea.
Let me read to you, the small stories that whisper
how grief seeps into the bones over and over,
how the days slip so quickly from our grasp,
how when what passes remains passed forever,
as it should be, how hard that is to get wrapped
around, how a moon in Paris is like no other.
Let me read to you, your hair curled Raphael
about your clock-laden face, the pictures in
sound that mute the minutes that live there,
while the house settles and the child sleeps
a room away hearing all, the rustle of blanket
when the passage turns darkly and cricket-hushed.
Let me read to you, the galaxy all ours, no
place to be before dreams overtake us, history
on its own now, the weight of worlds giving
way to what we do here, to what we speak
from the inside here that emerges to thrive on
the outside there of everything we hold between.
Joseph Gallo
June 27, 2012
June 27, 2012
post-time 8:52 PM
2 Comments:
Lovely, insightful and patient work, Joseph. Am I mistaken or is the concept of something held between a recurring one? A metaphor of shared consciousness or memory? Intriguing.
Thanks, Kyle. It may be a recurring theme, unconscious, conscious, both, who knows. SO much of our shared reality/delusion is something pinned to the in-between worlds, nothing evident to a certitude, so little given the name Absolute. Memory, most likely. Metaphor, most assuredly.
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