What I Was Trying to Say Was

Brian Burt

Gloveless hands searching pockets of a wool overcoat on the way to meeting.
Next to a church, a puddle reflecting angels upside down.
Swallows folding and unfolding among gravestones in the churchyard.
Outlines of two uprooted quince trees hugging the ground.
The skin of a hand feeling like it’s made of parchment.
Eyes looking around the park bench as if something had been dropped and not found.
The brown in your eyes now established as the color of old, dry leaves.
“I can’t do this anymore” becoming only sound.
A jagged line of geese flying more or less away.
A throat not speaking, feeling shriveled, tight.
The scars inside a voice, and inside those scars, scars.
The screech of a streetcar turning in the distant light.
One word and one word and one word, twisting around.
Are you sure you’re all right?