Questions Without Marks

I feel them all,

These whispers without whispering,

As they rattle secretly -and not –

Around this real-ether world.

We’ve never been face-to-face

Yet, disturbingly, and its opposite

She knows me so well.

There are moments, she says

Without speaking when she hangs

On my words. There are days,

I know when I am held in thrall by

Her brutally innocent intuits:

Questions without marks.

“Were we not more whole,

More in touch, when we respected

Those who commune with serpents?

When we recognised the snake as

Healer rather than nightmare?”

Me and the Little Hand

The window I first saw as green,
Flickered, became, bright yellow
Then purple; it now shows me black –
Or – had I eyes to see it clearly –
Much worse – it might be blank.

The spirit that crosses mountains
More easily than soldiers,
That passed whispered “darlings” and
“Forevers” between us in secret
Dockside rendezvous, still
Dances in her, spills endlessly
From her in silken sheet smiles,
Trembling on the brink of more:
Adventure, climax, sin, betrayal.

It was never the window altering:
It was me: me and the little hand
Moving on.

8/12/2012