Making sense of nonsense – Poem

This cabin must have been built at the time

of the American School, somewhere near the border, Vermont

and Mass, with dusty glasses stocking shelves, strawberries bursting

in red at that hidden patch of the path behind the ragweed overgrown

over the past century–


That’s what your tea smells like. That’s

how I talk, how I make sense. Or don’t. And you gesture finger to finger

thumb to thumb: heart. What if our hearts talked more

than our mouths? Some days I feel caught in the spiderweb

of perception. Screw Charlotte,


it gets sticky here. Some days I see only you. When I wash my hands

I imagine removing the excess beyond dirt: the books stacked too high,

the suite of boxes that no longer nest, the third set of sheets I

just kinda keep around. Some friends no longer friendly. What sticks? I don’t like

tea as much as coffee. But I like you.


Maybe the only sentence that matters in English is “I get you.”

Maybe none of these words count more than the length of time you let someone else

talk, sensing the symphony, the tea, holding your breath underwater, pulling down like a girl in floral, flipping an Oyster

in synchronized swim.


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