The Palms

alone and
              adoring what
day from an
open window does to
cut stones she delays
             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
                               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


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