in the quiet anonimity of the unsaid
words begin as tremors
before they know they are language
they search inside my looking
for the tenderness of a
presence that does not burn
a distance that does not freeze
a place where meaning does not rush
where the word can hesitate
long enough
to become something else
then silence begins to ache
like a density without margin
too much to be empty
too unfinished to be full
so I remain unfinished
caught in the middle of a verb
until the word
abandons its ending
like a presence
that does not insist