JULIE DAMERELL

Not a river, the tears

spin downstream, my eleven to hers,
both of us ankle-deep in silence,
seeking that path we could cross
to the other side of twelve
passage unnoticed

a strain of violin, silk of her solitude,
floats from the shuttered room
my fingers hold only the cold metal of no
when I ask if she can tell me
what it is
© 2003 Julie Damerell

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