Poetry About Fiction

A sentence opens where no hallway stood. Someone who never lived begins to breathe beside me. Rain falls on a city made entirely of ink. The lie of the story carries an honest wound. I close the cover, but its weather follows me home. Fiction lends us lives long enough to recognize our own.

Someone who never lived begins to breathe beside me. An invented voice can tell the truth without a passport. The lie of the story carries an honest wound. Even fiction keeps more than one meaning in view. The page ends; the borrowed heartbeat does not.

A sentence opens where no hallway stood. Time carries the image beyond its first appearance. Rain falls on a city made entirely of ink. I close the cover, but its weather follows me home. The page ends; the borrowed heartbeat does not. Fiction lends us lives long enough to recognize our own.