September Thorlin, Years Long Conversation

I don’t read your words,

I just pick them up

after you dropped them on paper.

I take them by the handful

and stare at them.

I can feel the sharp edges of t’s,

the smoothness of o’s,

careful not to lose the dots of eyes.


I can’t read your punctuation,

and now I’ve found a typo.

A photocopy of a dusty old poem—

I see words made of letters,

but hear nothing.


You wrote it’s just a mood,

but there you are,

right there,

I see you—

those words on the page,

letter by letter,

written by you,

just standing there—

pointing to some unknown

destination on the page.


If only I could ask Gorbash,

or the Blue Wizard,

maybe find it from the back of a dragon…


Und jetzt, noch ein Schreibfehler


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