Hey Mister Neruda, so
your hands never made
a broom--

of it? One of them
must have held the pen
while the long fingers of the other
rested on paper white with silence
as the word broom
wrapped in its yellow skirt
the greatest
we know.
by memory's hands
the broom chasséd
from memory's house
all the way
to that
upside down sky.
It did not
the qui-
et, but
brushed the motes of silence
into patterns on the page.
And how would we know
the sweep of so much space
had we not
your word for it.

[Chris Brandt/poem] [Mark Gering/painting]
Poem by Chris Brandt on poetz.com
© copyright Thin Ice Press 1998-2007
© copyright Chris Brandt 1998-2007
© copyright Mark Gering 1998-2007