Charlie Greg Sark

untitled….i think

following the arch
of your letter, crisp
on birch paper with
each curve begging
for memory ripe in
years held beneath
finger tip.
this letter holds
a word that consumes
my thirst for

the culmination of
letters, of the words,
the notes, they become
the contrast-light
in simile slammed
through background
noise of recent
remembering. the
pen tip on tongue,
slips from memories’
muscle as soft pounding
sounds into each fiber.

imagine the pen,
held in your hand,
as ink greets
paper with liquid
life potential
in each line.
the place where
my thoughts wander
to the edge of
the page.

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