**


These   sentences   will   be  coherent

even  if   I  am not  always.   You  will

find them elsewhere;  perhaps hidden    

amongst   my  eyelashes.   Shadowed

away  like  those  forgotten  diaries  I

leave  beneath  my  bed  and  in  your

arms.  The form poems take amongst

my  heart like a nest  made of  cotton

and wool  and your arms again.   The

pages  of  every  diary I have  written

are woven throughout   my  nest now

and it doesn’t matter if I find  a  page  

of sorrow.   I  get to be  happy today.

It’s  my  turn.   And  these  sentences

will  be  coherent.   Even if I am  not,

they will still  be smoothing hands  to  

my  brow and your  knee  and  I  will

take the broom  and sweep their  still

articulate  shapes  into  your  nest  of

arms  and  old  disjointed tears.   The

latter are mine.  Oh?  I pray for more

time   to   make  my  new   sentences.

They will end  up  just  as the nest  of  

letters I forgot about. Shadowed  into   

my  eyelashes   and  just  as  illogical   

as my thoughts are now.

                                         It’s my turn

**