The Palms

alone and
              adoring what
day from an
open window does to
cut stones she delays
                    all
             sleepful reveries that
   don’t remind her of
          being a stone herself—her
       smell, her
  secret life is            on me, and
I remember
      small steps,  a smile,
  tender, sad and careful
         syllables of encouragement—
   we are            waking—now,
         then,         what sound
            (palms shivering in
        those winds) will we remember
              nothing,
              nothing,
                               so little by?

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

$1.00

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