The body, helpless, confesses itself
in a stubbed toe, tick of the lip, wan grin.
An absence not unfamiliar enough—
its name felt but blank, a phantom limb—
imagination fails to fill the gap.
Like erasure’s space of white left behind,
the dream trace, vanished, of a fever nap.
The said unsaid. Sound blown as breath in wind
that mottles the lake top’s metallic face;
the wind a postcard with no ‘name & address’
depicting snow reflected in window glass.
Not the cathode tube’s pure void, not emptiness.
The spark, the synaptic impulse, frozen in place.
Silk touch of a loved one’s glance—that silence.