I was just about sure
my words would always
go unheard.
Dots and dashes
between two cans
intertwined.
Who’s to say
the notes will make it there,
or side-wind
through one ear and out the other,
or bounce around
inside your skull.
Know what I mean?
Trapped in the highest spire
of our respective mind palaces.
No runway,
no helipad,
we’ll have to drop each other
a line.
Our words
will run along
the overgrowth.
May we drink wine,
tell tall tales
and catch up —
even when we’re far away.
The File Pile 