The First Line

A few words
caught in the white
of the screen
a trailing thought
“The winnowing whistle
of the winter of the wind”
or “Light licks it’s way
up the wall, spilled liquid”
phrases that tickle
or itch like a feather
poking through the down
warmth of a comforter.

When I Don’t Listen

You’re talking, lips moving
however I hear hardly
anything you are saying,
just a dribble of sounds
maybe a stray syllable
or a vowel that didn’t veer
off course. Your consonants
fail to carry in the air
and the timbre of your voice
tumbles to the table top
before it reaches my ears.