1,331 Readings


In the knell
we looked for words.

The knock of a fork—

Time tossed intimacy
around the kitchen

and readied on the range
a rabbit’s red meat.

How could music presume
to mimic the sea?

The cuff itself
wrapped and pounding.

If we tried to climb—
if we looked for a ladder

our kisses made the collar,
forgot us

all the same. Words
for a while wandered,

came back to dance at us

swallowed. I couldn’t
believe it hurt.
Posted 01/08/11
Books by Sally Delehant
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