For WS

Perhaps your voice
hasn’t changed.  Though,
everything seems
alien today.   It’s
comforting to know
that bricks are
still bricks.  Skin as well
is familiarly skin,
still covering
the caverns of half-heard dreams,

like small crabs
scuttling in and out of
their crab holes —
pulse.  I still
wake at dawn,

still ponder the universe,
still love, still find
comfort in the aspirations
of my small madness’s,
still ask the moon dark
questions, am still
separated from you by
a rising ruin of words.