is such a strange affliction with questions
                                                  getting stuck in the throat
                                                               after swallowing exclamation points
that might have made life better.

Maybe you not asking me was a
                                                 wisp of air circling the mouth,
                                                           afraid of letting the landing gear down
& scattering words on the tongue’s runway.

Maybe me not asking you was isolation
                                                    becoming religion,
                                                                        trading in my black leather jacket

for a simple, Amish, no power look.

Maybe talk is the sound a Kleenex
                               makes leaving the box, clearing a path
                                              between heaven & earth, and all things telling
the lips to stay in a belted and upright position.

Daniel Edward Moore lives in Washington on Whidbey Island. His poems are forthcoming in Weber Review, The Cape Rock, Kestrel, River Heron Review, Passengers Journal, The Night Heron Barks, Coachella Review, Ocotillo Review, Nebo Literary Journal, and Main Street Rag Magazine.

He is the author of the chapbook, “Boys” (Duck Lake Books), and his full-length collection “Waxing The Dents,” was a finalist for the Brick Road Poetry Prize (Brick Road Poetry Press). Visit him at Danieledwardmoore.com.