have you ever read a poem
that pressed fingers, oh so lightly, to the roll of your rib
that left behind its prints in your blind clay?
and have you ever felt the touch
of another's written words
cool and steady upon the tremble of your heart
or the thin, electric probe
from deep within that grey and secret mass?
have tears welled, unguessed, from unknown springs
to slide the landscape of your face
to find your lips, your tongue, with their new taste?
and have you found you step in their footsteps
following half-hidden trails, uncertain but
rewarded for your faith?
for all the bright and stirring words
the burnished poets pen
i far prefer the quiet ones
that make me feel, again.