The Relic Of A Sentence Hanging (early 1990's)

The relic of a sentence hanging; spotless,
in the air, no fumes, no retribution,
no joy at it's own utterance, a
mirthless baby, a dry pen.

The repeat death-birth of letters sent; useless,
necessarily, strung together into words, no waves,
no revenge, no win no loss no tie, suicide
notes singing the song of life, no body found,
remove this letter and the mailbox will be empty.

An eyelash sticking to a finger
A wish at the bottom of a well

The artifacts of spoken words, floating; jagged
fossils to the ear, fossils which are
somehow still alive.

Love songs from the Ice Age, yeti
screams, howling winds, and woolly mammoths,
all exist in non-existence, non-entical
sensical tentacles which fondle our
skin like warm breaths coming from deep
within a prehistoric cave.
If it were just you breathing on me
me breathing on you it would be easy but
there could be nothing in that cave and
your hair would still blow away from your face