If I never wrote another word, would
you reclassify me as ordinary, blur
my face into the crowd? She's
no longer being a little weird. In
fact I hardly notice her at all. Perhaps
I will trace dust runes instead, plans
optimistic of any form of future, on
ledges of emporium windows, long
since derelict and boarded over, as
unremembered as my poems. All
of this trembling uncertainty, vibrations
from my manic life, must settle soon, into
a familiar rhyme and rhythm. Silence
not broken but created. She
is at it again. Writing.
© Berenice Dunford 2008
