i broke the last egg
as you gathered
berries
it wasn’t breakfast
we were hunting
sideways and
loop-edged
in the miracle
of kitchen
crumb-crunch on the floor
fresh bread
daily broken
the sound so much less
than silence
scriff-scruff
and ground level
eyes never met
through a limerick
of dance
you were always so bawdy
and i was the pattern
true pitch
ticking time
to your song
of burnt flesh,
soft toast,
crooked finger
twenty-one years later
that’s what we call it
not nine eleven oh one
not September 11, 2001
just
nine eleven
two words
three digits
two towers
four planes
thousands
of
mothers
fathers
daughters
sons
sisters
brothers
wives
husbands
aunts
uncles
girlfriends
boyfriends
not statistics
falling
from
the
sky
not dates
or where were you’s
just whole hearts
in odd numbers
each one
the only necessary
evidence
of love
::
.
.
.
because all the mirrors
are broken
and your reflection
always hung
slightly crooked
framed by deckled edge
and past perturbance
and i
forever-settled
for the spot-speckled
lower left corner
while you took
center stage
with your soliloquy
of silence
and today I’m at the edge
of waves and water
water and waves
rolling sound and
rumbling cloud
tumble stumble
roam-rambling
around and around
and around
bent clock chiming
a litany of blue
false mirror memories
written only in sand
waves and water
water and waves
wearing down bone-sharp corners and
twisted-knife wounds
bash-crashing
ripple dancing
up the coast of blind deception
drowning out the sound
of simple silence
concealed in the shade
of broken boulders
pounding
washing
polishing
clean
these broken-tainted
pickled ghosts
drinking rich
from thirst’s existence
…
