Accident is merely another way of saying
the path was unclear; or it was dark, the moon
was covering its face. A spill of water
on the table tracks a path along grooves
that once lived in the wood— Whatever the impulse,
what leaves arrives at some form of destination.
In our house, we have no hurricane
shelter. In the bathroom, brown tiles
lie next to each other and water
coming through the taps can be
as hot as you want. I am trying to learn
tenderness without fear of being wounded,
without fearing the constant dialogue
of self versus its loneliness.
Purveyors of fine poetry since 2003.
