We read ourselves in the lines
of your face, empty the red
from your warm lips, spoon ice
into sips of cognac and recall
as a poem the press of your breath
in the center of ruined wallpaper.
If I favor memory, I recall
the night you were born,
how I would hold you, carefully,
your lips closed over a thumb.
I would read you small, forgotten
You would suck as if a metronome,
your face the color of fire.
I aspire to be your introduction
to the six dimensions of the highest
moons in Galway.
Nobody says, "Don't pack rope."
2015 Maureen E. Doallas
I created these poems from words found in lines from TweetSpeak Poetry's post "Top 10 Dip Into Poetry Lines".