Spoken Fragments

by Ed Higgins

I am word driven. We all are actually. All these questions, a Möbius strip.

Speaking as if words were another kind of intimacy we soon arrived by
noun, verb and syntax at the heart’s empty page, not a moment too soon.

The inability to say myself. Because you may be listening and both of us may overhear only to discover what neither expected or desires.

And because there are geese heading North again and lavender and white crocus opening to spring bees carried to them on this morning’s sunlight.

I travel these words past signs and misgivings looking for sweet smelling honeysuckle hung in the arbor there.