What Must Go Unsaid
If I had a moment alone with you,
we’d lie under a sun-threaded maple,
the full lengths of us not touching.
I’d listen as you read
Hoagland, Williams and Oliver,
Rumi and Contreni-Flynn,
drown in the sound of the words
in your mouth, the hum of your
voice filling your chest.
After an hour, you’d read
Ciardi’s praise of the Snowy Heron,
my delighted mouth would find yours.
Originally published in Decompression Poetry