The Words

The words.
The words remain.

Not the persons who spoke,
if they ever existed, even.

But the words.

Not intentions of those
persons, when speakin
those words.

But the words.
The words remain.

It’s not magic!
It’s words. Remaining words.

It’s words and not magic.
Magic is made. Magic doesn’t
remain.

It’s the words.
The words remain.

Remain is not of the words.
Remain might be magic.
Remain does not remain.

But the words.
But, to remain.
But, to be magic.

To remain and be magic?

The words.
The remaining of.
Words.

Sometimes To Disappear

Sometimes to disappear
like Holden Caulfield

crossing a street
through dusk’s descent

on this lightly lit
and nervous city

without a book
by my side or nesting

in my beleaguered lap
I am left go to transpose

a daisied frame
of dimpled

and fallish words

A wrinkle of linking seconds

too antique to recall
proceed

sitting me down
dizzy a bit

stoned
on age’s breath

So for what will I send
such toyish thoughts forward?

Maybe for no one

as I do love true
the no one’s I know