Our Hands Never Reach

Here
I sit in this spot,
my arrangement of care
shining and throwing shadows
clear to the end of the table,
to where the dark gathers.

With a woman in mind,
I draw a face on a napkin.
It always contains me
and you. For ever,
any purpose is enough
to get us here as us.
Our hands never reach.
That's how it is we've been
sitting long enough
to not say more than the silence
makes complete.

Touching my wrist,
I shift time.
With the end so close,
I can wait another pulse
of the kalpa mechanism
before opening my eyes
to your eyes.
But, I won't. I try,
because you're there.



by jerry gordon
1.9.5
cafe independants, kyoto
(found in my winter jacket)