Journal

He keeps a journal
the pages wrinkled
by time and by his tears.
Sometimes his pen washes
through the damp spots
weaving a faint blue trail
of sorrow word to word
the saline connections of
his thoughts to his life
only he will remember.

He has by habit and
astigmatism learned to make
slanting straight lines
and cannot decide if their
cant is up or down
or where the best of his
sentences start or end.

Idly in the spaces
between the words
he nurtures other thoughts
silent even to himself.
Someday he will read
all the empty spaces
to discover all the
things he really thought.

The silence wounds his
musing and stops his pen
though his hand keeps
moving with his heart.
He sees its pulse
in his wrist.