.................................
A Stranger
.................................

I took the wrong briefcase, its papers in German;
its owner had mine, filled with English. We met,
happy to switch, and she said in her accent:
"I almost tell you I love you."

We made exchange. For the briefest moment
her wrist dwelt in my hand. Since then
I've held dear others, scrawled much English
on hopeful pages, and to this day

can summon her whenever I wish
by the sense of her narrow wrist in my circlet
of fingers -- a stranger whose words I'd returned;
who almost told me she loved me.

 
.................................
Portrait in One Sitting
.................................

She's planting her someday-perfect herb garden --
every spring she plans
it anew --

and if I question her now I know
her answer will climb slow stairs to reach

her lips, or hover unsaid in her smile,
that Cheshire-cat-like evidence

she's crossing the border into light,
common sprig or rare in her hopeful hand.

.................................
Barry Spacks
.................................

 
Copyright © Barry Spacks
June 1996

...a cycle of poems in this room by Blaise Cirelli...
i lie in an autumn pile of your kisses
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