David Kling

The beggar’s stick, the curved stick

arched tensely like a bow…

knotted wood, curled and torn from use,

the knob bloodied by unredeemed hands…

(We arrived again where we started

and again we missed the mark;

we did not recognize, or we had forgotten

the place from where we had set out.)

I remember snow covered grounds, still.

Words cannot evoke them, the memory

escapes when perched before vulgar descriptions.

I remember it was cold, and I felt safe.

I remember

I walked away, and I saw you, inconsolable,

Lying in a puddle in a doorway, fearing to enter.

I did not recognize myself in you.

I looked at you, and you pulled out a note

From a crumpled dress. I did not read,

And yet a debt was discharged. I owe you,

and yet I never read a word.

The letters had always been etched within

my mind and my memory,

but they had never been given to me.

I laid the paper down as if it were a scripture.

It burned, melting into the wind

ash and cinder, the words transfigured.

But I still did not know her

And I turned away in horror

And the moment was forever lost.

Irretrievable

I again picked up a broken stylus,

every word taunting me,

mocking a debt unable to be settled.