Grace Bedwell The 2River View, 6.3 (Spring 2002)


i keep writing you these poems
that have no words.

they sit on my tongue / expanding
in my saliva.

they are small feelings:
as soon as i inhale them i
forget their significance.

they are single words like
move or artifice
down my finger tips

i watch them fall off of me,
peeled away like the bark of white
birch trees.

i push them to the side & watch

them dissolve into white noise.
i am left with this:

i cannot write this any more

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