W. Sean Mosman Sinclair
For H.B.—A heathen’s resolve
Through tired Willows play
and go to sleep in words
Milk in the Teapot,
your voice on my tongue
I want to ask you so many questions
Cleaning to beat the Kettle so that I can come back
with nothing left to do, Even though
words sent out quickly won’t reach back to me
until sometime after dark
I want to tell you so many stories
So when you read this call me,
or indulge a silent hour against my ear
to know that you are breathing
Like I would know
if you were here reading your books
while I read mine.
…occasionally glancing up through the rain
To laugh at something serious
Clamor 