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”
Loved the Anniversary. Enjoy all of these so much