Tim Phillips
Inklings
Strange now to recollect them who were once
more real than ourselves.
Strange to have them
motionless in photographs,
uttering no orders, unable to stroke
our hair or judge the mess of our lives.
Only inklings now:
the shadow between familiar glances,
the echo of a voice whose rhythm
gets harder and harder to play in our bones,
and a breath
wafer thin,
tasteless
on our dry tongues.
Page(s) 22
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