There is No Such Thing as a Blank

We are such a people of inexhaustible silences. We can mistake
the absence of speech for tenderness because we have to give

someone the benefit of the doubt. What is second nature
but to put pieces of any wreckage into brown envelopes, 

file them away with others in a drawer, then blink afterward
at the brilliance of sunset over the water? After the storm 

passes, the colors are even more vibrant and unreal. 
They don't want to be contained. Some stones are just 

stones; others are fawn or speckled green, banded 
yellow, gashed with tourmaline. Some are crystals 

that tremor  to the frequency of every beggared 
expectation. For instance, I wanted one

 roof over all our heads; I wanted to not turn into my histories 
of being forgotten or left behind. We don't speak of love

or its other aliases. This is real, though— this space
vibrating with the knowledge that it could be filled.

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