Anniversary, by Richard Spilman

Across the chiasma of thought and touch,

Nerves write their own language:

An ancient tongue without third person,

I, thou, and those beyond the pale.

But when the barter of words ceases,

Our love becomes an age-freckled map,

Bordered by whimsical monsters,

A star birth, a white driftwood hand

Raised above a motionless sea.

One thought on “Anniversary, by Richard Spilman

Leave a Reply

Fill in your details below or click an icon to log in: Logo

You are commenting using your account. Log Out /  Change )

Twitter picture

You are commenting using your Twitter account. Log Out /  Change )

Facebook photo

You are commenting using your Facebook account. Log Out /  Change )

Connecting to %s