Aware
What am I aware of?
Fingertips
the plastic beat of an electronic heart
as I type - not in the moment
but racing down stream
to a whirlpool
where words surface.
The last sip of coffee
coating the back of my throat;
a lost and found shelf
at the end of a defunct railway line
where my voice
rattles in an empty tin box.
Aware of this self
picking up discarded symbols,
shaking them
wanting them to speak for me.
Aware of this hard backed chair
and its strange power
to reach into a river
and pull out the long drowned.
Copyright © Eric Ashford | Year Posted 2023
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