I am a chatter house, an inscription of italics – a font,
if you pardon my word play, of sound splashing on a
stone in a yesterday courtyard with Rachmaninoff
streaming through an above time open window.
And what might they be… these letters home, these
sound shapes, these whistles – tiny lip and tongue
click clacks, but diversions from the more important
memory of me touching the shape of life’s outline?
This is how I come to stutter, to jaw drop downward,
to whimsy worry about what stops: the little gaps, the
literal memory of the too much, the wish maybe, the
taste of candy with its almost sweet certainty…