(fragment)

my words are worlds away
they seem so young
the stretch of syllables, the turns of phrase
like talking to oneself on paper
the reader never thought of.
a monologue performed
without realization

common

on days like this, we sit
and hold our lives up to
the light. you missed a spot,
a grandfather with
black breath and
cigarette fingers who asks
to give some sugar, a brother
who doesn't know his
story, a father who lays
down the law behind office
doors, we talk about death
the bearers of our parents wills
the way we will conduct ourselves
our births, our hair, the times
that we remember, the hands we hold,
the faces that touch ours, and
all that we can try to hold
in common.