When the many-mouthed
yet faceless voice,
Whose languages
rages even as it sighs,
Repeats between
the crowded days and cuts
A wordy wound
across my palm that’s pressed
Against the window
to her soul,
I feel beyond
the simple sense
To touch the
place where all her secrets lie
And bind my eye
to beauty out of sight;
A beauty born
when her sentence formed is
Worth more than the
sum of this world’s truth.
