The Brink

“Just some grit,” says Paul. He
blinks, then blinks again and tears
spread like a cellophane wrap,
two small, round gifts—when will
the end be, and what is the meaning
to begin with. We wonder the same
thing and await the next small moment
to break the weighty silence. The
fretsaw rings in his hand again, the
wasted wood curls and leaps like
sparks, our tears are gone, and
words, all the words like our tears
to eyes, recede to some brink behind
the human machine of mouths and
the gentle sound of wood dividing.

Thanks for checking out my poem.

Did I tell you I wrote a novel? You can read it here for free, or get it for your e-reader on iBooks, Amazon or Kobo. Or you can just say you read the book, and donate five bucks down below. Go on.

Gabriel Muoio


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