What I Want to Say
by Samuel Salerno

Why are the things that need to be said
so often out of our reach--
An unsalted soup to my lips;
the air that weaves past me on long runs;
or the emptiness of a full glass of wine--
The bird's wing I cannot touch.

Why do we look for
the things that don't want us--
As if in their having
we could bury our grief.

Finding is losing--

Loss is a warm flame
we can hold our hands to.

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