nothings

this poem is made of maple 
syrup sky and black forest 
on rye and the whispered 
why of granulated grace. 

of empty space. of quiet 
lines that trail true 
north, wax forth and wane
only by a frosted slice of moon. 

too soon, she’ll murmur 
something in your ear in starspeak
-braille, the unfailing echo of a 
startled song. and you’ll long 

for the somethings she’s spoken,
the broken pieces that no longer
rhyme. and you’ll think the day’s gone
soft at center; but there’s still time. 

::
in November, we poem.

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