I have 13 seconds of you
speaking the words of a poet.
Beautiful but not yours.
In the cracks between
Neruda’s paving stones
live the breaths
you’ve taken
to lay them.
Woven through his phrasing,
plays the cadence
of your ordered memory
reeling their filaments
out into the ether.
The syllables each wear
their tonal halos
tuned to what they’ve
meant to you.
I think, of all poets,
Pablo would understand
when I say
he’s in the way.
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