by Chris Dornwell

words can be wrong the way feelings never can be
my own, said in sympathy, but sharp-edged like smashed
shore bottles without an ocean’s wisdom

i forget that silence can be a cradle
that evenings can be unmade like beds —
in an instant, in careless tossing

it is over now, i know

if only over meant undone
meant you are a wonder to me
meant i am a fool

do not mistake my apology for self-negation
i know that better does not change past sins

perhaps we can ride in new stillness, forward? and if i am
lucky i may learn another quadrant of the unfolded map, kept
secret inside you like the questions behind your eyes —
you are my only favorite mystery

Chris Dornwell is a land monkey who grew up on the mid-Atlantic coast. He guesses he is a writer, but most people know him as the guy who fixes their bike. He now lives and works in Madison, Wisconsin.

Image by djedj from Pixabay.

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