poems as hand- and foot-holds on a glass mountain

Clearing Fences

we sip chilled wine on a deck-like terrace

in autumn sunlight’s failing warmth

in the distance the low rumble of the falls

a light lunch

we’ve not seen each other in months

we’re ‘mending fences’



“Questions make bad poems,” she says


as if writing on a chalkboard

I listen for recurrence of old arguments

today they’re just shadows

She reads me one of hers

a startling piece with no answers

a rush of certainties in crisp description

I’ve not brought any of mine

     and don’t memorize

she chuckles, winning a contest I’ve not entered

“Read or be read,” she says, mocking me

I brush away memories of old strands of argument

about texts that read us until we can read them

they’re tired fish resting in shallows

before driving on upstream to spawn

I make no comment

she smirks, thinking neither is no option

more mockery

when everything is worthy

sometimes there is no saying

even her bronzed praises 

of surfaces.  of nothing.   

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