Words...
Scooped up, pitched
like snowballs.
Was that a hit?
A face, a leg, a private place?
Laughter.
No rocks, please.
So many words.
Touching without touching,
reaching,
finding just one pattern,
six sides.
You tell me I'm a labyrinth
of endless rooms to lose yourself.
I say, hold hands.
(Published in Valley Writers Guild
"Gristmill" 1998)
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