without asking i know
it is the solitude
i remember most.
after a good meal.
after a storm has passed.
after our argument
about the poetry of
wallace stevens.
after sex.
and how the solitude
born in the intensity
of the moment
ran down like some
antique clock wound tight
and put aside to slowly
tick the quiet time down.
to when words once again
became necessary whether
we wanted to speak them
or not or even needed to.
but they were just words
and meant nothing.
why else are they the thing
i do not remember.
keith pearson was born and raised in new hampshire and works at a local high school in the math department.
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