The Spoken Word
By Paul Cameron Brown
I touch your
face - where strands of whispery hair
dangle your thoughtful gaze through mine.
Clutching,
all the words not said
lie pale and broken
beneath forgery lies.
Eyes, our facial minnows, the mirror
images, flash too brightly
out of the shallows,
out of their stony commitments
towards believing
we cannot agree.