Text-only versions available via corresponding links. All accompanying photographs by Fred Clavél.

ECHOES

by Fred Clavél

 

I'm juggling pieces of the puzzle.

Making sense of the tiny sentences

That run clear over your lips.

 

Call it an ailment,

But the burning black blood in my lungs

Tells me you're not listening

At all.

 

It seems that the restraints on your arms

Have forced me to once again

Breathe life into the dead woods.

 

If your wake were in tune with mine

I'd gladly touch palms with you

And fill you with these kisses, like stings

From the broken haven at your feet.