.

I dream the smell of roses
by my father`s stone,
strain to hear his voice again
and from this little root
of an idea, you grab hold,
filled with fog and vagueries
you wrap around my head
like vines, like
tiny-tendrilled consonants,
spider legs that creep
inside my words,
not really there
and does this make me blind,
these thoughts of you and me,
leaves overlapping letters
lost in shadows on the wall
that sway the day away
and form a poem
that I repeat
against the clock?