Roy Herndon Smith
Always you surprise
me, dear reader. I toss words
out. They lie between
us. You pick them up.
You toss stillness and words back.
All is new between
us. The plane trees in
even morning light. The cry
of a bird between
the hum of traffic
thickening and thinning the
atmosphere between
here and there where
shots rat-a-tat, a lost child
screams, the void between
us gapes and fills with
words and stillness and always
you surprising me.
dust 