Tuesday, January 15, 2013



No reins on forgiveness / reeling in or pushing
-- futile. Both. We found ourselves at Argonne
walking and waiting for it to happen, in a field.

How far from the road we were, and alone.
Rounding a copse of trees a factory loomed.
-- smoke. Silence. Nibbling herd of fallow deer.

Gripping my hand then / a finger to your lips
-- crouching. Both. Our lack of words that day
becoming a roar, an antlered head turned.

And as one over a fence they bounded, a fawn
stopping. Looked directly at me / kicked a post.
There, you said -- squeezing my hand. That's it.

Walk back to the car different. At one moment.

-- © Ciprianowords, Inc. 2013 --

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