|
| in passing |
| So I've thought every time |
| just who are you -- |
| chance meetings, |
| quick glimpses, |
| that faint recognition that |
| passes your face when |
| you see me, |
| and it's not more than that. |
| Your silence becomes you |
| it fits your face, |
| sharp chiseled lines |
| that won't give your secrets away; |
| severed restraints |
| of a tactile indifference |
| your glance scathes |
| a path through the room. |
| I should be like you -- |
| tensely-contained, |
| the slim piercing foil |
| that's honed to an edge |
| of sharp practice, |
| and passing, our eyes seize |
| our wordless encounter |
| of thrust and parry... |
| © Jon Bohrn (1999) |
