A ripple is an echo by other names,
in other tongues, other epochs;
it is a chosen stone, careful dropped
as quill ink on fresh-printed parchment,
but lesser permanent, lesser meant,
blind but to its writer, by terms.
Listen closely, it can be heard:
the hesitance in verbage of tea-time blandness,
though content with flattened verse, it stirs
of deeper longing in private hours,
it cries between pine needles' space
to come back to spaces where
you and I ripple upon each other.Or is it echo?
Could Be All Yours
If I could freeze clocks on you,
the glacial porcelain facades of
Swiss maker's hands could finger-count
all hours running out my youth in cold,
in unaired hotel rooms, in library benches,
I'd settle on love's birth in a single metaphor:
you were reading Kundera
in a room of light banter's banality,
every impulse to crafter's wine,
dusty bookshops, thesis work in
the Sunday pubs of suburban London.
Still, the bottle dust, the record books,
the hard-parcel pieces, the Guardian default news-tickers
give way to clicking the same three Chait articles
to smirk slightly at their headlines.
In other terms,