for the memory of W.B.
She remained available to words
any day of time or night. Sang
words if they wanted thrumming,
mumbled humbled ones, bathed
others in black ink. Words
were people in her mind. Without
them she couldn’t imagine the
something she’d be without them.
Come on, come in, she said when
they arrived. She fixed a place
for each, knew most of their
morphological needs. They
knew they might denote, connote,
obscure, shade, or just freely lie
around her home.
Toward words she truly
tried to act the perfect hostess.
