by David Rosenthal

Tracing the trail that wraps around your waist
and slips behind your hips and down your thighs,
I dwell on words my worn, myopic eyes
are all too blind to read when daily faced
with all the world’s distractions, dash, and haste;
and just as silence amplifies your sighs,
the darkness here, wherein your body lies,
makes legible a language light erased.
I scan from left to right, and back again —
the meter flows each way along your skin,
as long as I just let the letters lead.
Not far from us, the cold, discordant din
continues at accelerating speed,
but I am deafened by the words I read.

David Rosenthal lives in Berkeley, California, and teaches kindergarten and first grade in Oakland. His poems have appeared in Measure, The Chimaera, The HyperTexts, Blue Unicorn, Soundzine, and other journals. He has been a Nemerov finalist, a Pushcart nominee, and a Donald Justice Book Award semi-finalist.
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Pat Jones
Published 2 January 2011