Thursday, March 09, 2006


Speak riddles. I shall seek
what answers you need,
bring stacks of words
that might make sense

if that one in the middle
were moved but then
the whole thing would
fall and I’d never get

them in order again.
No matter. Let me scribble
pictures of my soul,
shingle your roof

with post-it notes.
The rain will sing you
to sleep in the arms
of my words.

Stephen Brooke ©2006

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