Known Strangers (2008)
“The poet doesn’t invent. He listens.” Jean Cocteau Like maps Wrinkled by time, With faded yellow edges That denote past rhymes. In the Unknown Indefinitely trapped With simple features, Smooth or chapped, These sculpted creatures Reconstruct Déjà-vus known And reveries sewn Many moons ago. Solemn Whispered sighs And silent eyes So profound that you may…