It is not the loud screaming roar nor the overt display
Which in the end leaves on us indelible it's mark
But rather the tiny voice scarce heard which whispers
Words we did not wish to hear
Oh we deny it of course but there it is
The simple sight will touch us,
A kitten, a child at play, a smile and no more
These are the images that last long past the splash
Of colour and light that assaults our eyes in an obscene mix
The pure tone of a tiny bell or the whisper of a child
Some silly song once heard in our youth
These are the sounds we remember when
The crashing bands have faded away into numbed silence
The touch of two lips brushing momentarily on our cheek
A finger stroke along our jaw or breath on the back of our neck
These are the sensations we remember
Years after we forget the throb of dropping that couch on our foot
Or smashing our shin in the dark
The taste of popcorn or apple pie
Perhaps a slice of pumpkin or bowl of ice cream
A piece of chocolate or fresh baked bread just buttered
These linger longer than the five star meal we spent too much to have
Jasmine or Evening Scented Stocks
Vanilla and nutmeg or cinnamon in the kitchen
These are the fragrances we recall when in our age we long to remember
Long after all those strange exotic scents that once flooded our lives
We think it is the big moments, the flashy moments, the impressive moments
That will be matter in the end
But those are not where the hinges of our lives are fixed
It's the little things that fill us with awe
Small sights and sounds
Tiny touches and tastes
Subtle smells and minor seeming events
These are what we remember in the end

We felt the winter moving through the air
but didn't feel it sink into our bones—
as by and by it settles into stones—
and yet it did. I can't recall just where

we were when I first felt that we were cold,
but I remember how you shivered even
in our bed beneath the blankets, even
under all my weight that you could hold,

insisting it was coming from within
your bones, deep down, and radiating out
to make your hand feel chilly in my own.

And now I've got the shivers, too. My skin
is cool with winter, chatters in my mouth,
as by and by it settles in a stone.

or "let's order takeout,"
or "small ineptitudes in the kitchen"


1.

butter
lop
it liberally
silver clinging

scrape it
pan side
sputters and hissing
smoky?

turn the heat
down
crimsoning
elemental

browning the
butter


2.

sizzling whites
diaphanous
stiffly whitened

bubbles surface
spatula stroking
poly—

tetrafluoroethylene
roll the egg
yolk

shattering
yellow


3.

****! the water
nothing—
evaporated

gasping
blue effluvium
windows
fanblades

blackened ***
the bite of a
char upon
it

tea for
tomorrow

I hold my heart when thunder claps,
I hold it when the courier raps
Upon my door—to feel the beat
It often hides—it drums so sweet
And then subsides to tender taps.

My heart is shy when only maps
Can dare expound what hungry gaps
Consume the ground between our feet.
I hold my heart

And tear the envelope that wraps
The lifeblood printed on your scraps
And feed my veins like summer heat
Is supped by rains. Until we meet
At last again when storms collapse,
I hold my heart.

I watch the rain as it patters against the window.
It reminds me of you,
Loud and unsettling.

You take my hand and I adjust your tie;
A feat of symbiosis.

I whisper,
"Thank you."
But I know that I am not welcome.

Your eyes slide down my cheeks
Following the blue trails of my tears.
You whisper,
"I'm sorry."

Forgiveness is anything but subjective.