Summer 2005 • Vol. XXVII No. 3 Poetry |

For You

You don't even know you love me, you whose forehead I want to lay my hands on. You don't even know how I love you: when the river is high, I love you, or when the river is low down in the mud. In a time when angels rocked among us, our memory was opened up to a road that led to this worthless, faithless now. Lonely rivers like us flow out to the sea. Oh, what is that longing in the window, and where can I feel your blood in mine, though you don't even know me. You don't even know my name. You can't even hear me. You can't see me standing here, my fingers making a flower between us.

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