From the old poems folder:

In His Hands

Murkiness
of pulp, progressive disintegration
of the strands. These are the fibres
we have in common. History,
as strength and density reduce,
the trajectory of matter as words slip
off the page and the whole liquefies, blends,
and meshed, is re-formed.
(The fragile value of brittle age.

***
The second-hand novel received with such significance--
a hint of discoloration in the corners
where your fingertips, palm, held
the book open, the sheets
offering up these words,
(would that they were mine
to be brushed so casually, dry
caress of a calloused hand
over thin yellowed
leaves, this touch so common
between us.

***
Found body
of a love letter, crushed
rose petals pressed between the folds,
faint scent lingering.
Years later, perhaps only a post card:
a European landscape, sketchy,
familiar writing, a few spare words about the weather.
The important stuff is never really said anyway. Not
while on vacation in the south of Spain,
(the sun heavy on your shoulders
like the hand of God.

***
We work to say more than ink tattooing the flesh of paper,
those sun-burned lengths peeled from shoulders and back,
can ever say. Listen,
always, wanting
to hear more.