tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8555114521624356230.post-68181831878626375152008-02-12T03:19:00.000-08:002008-02-12T03:20:35.794-08:00I didn’t catch your name.<br />Still,<br />here I am,<br />wondering what the point is;<br /><br />In this perfection<br />we grow like fingernails<br />Will we ever stop?<br />No.<br />We might be cut or nibble-bitten<br />or ground down by work.<br />Yet we become and become<br />Until we die<br />and then maybe<br />we become something else,<br />then, some more.<br />I’d buy that book.<br />Has it been written?<br />The one that tells us what happens<br />when we stop becoming.<br />Some of us think we have<br />already.<br />Yes, like death<br />Truth.<br />If you find it I will lay with you<br />and let you scratch my back<br />with your fingernails,<br />while I search for it.<br />Yes<br />it is an invisible word, <br />there, not here.<br />So tonight, without names<br />We will sleep beneath birds.<br />Unlike umbrellas, our heads<br />above our bodies<br />swallowing glittering tears<br />before pride’s useless withered hand.<br />In the face of this<br />pinnacle of pleasing angles<br />obscuring our view <br />of details not meaningless.<br />As none we are.<br />As we are.<br />Hand-tinted as stars met<br />by ladders that end<br />twenty feet above the ground.<br />Your name is a script, illiterate.<br />On a delta of my hand’s palms<br />let me gift you<br />my resistance,<br />yes,<br />so we meet.<div class="blogger-post-footer"><img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/8555114521624356230-6818183187862637515?l=www.littleglasspen.com'/></div>Amanda Joyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01630905497211235099amanda@littleglasspen.com3