till it was a screen of mirrors
we told our stories in whispered secrets
now
we live the dream as advertised
everything within reach
tomorrow a fingertip away
our conversation full of words
from the dried out silt of dictionaries
our voices may as well be silent
© BH, 2026
The phrase that came to me a month or so ago was ‘the silt of dictionaries’.
Five iterations, spawning at least three more poems, and this is where it is.
There must be a treatise of some sort for poems. Their gestation and their random offspring…
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