The Buddha said, or Freud.

by Kim Triedman

And life suckles
at the tit of something else. Or else
will, if it is quiet, or
did, when it was young. Something so
huge as to feel

intimate, like oceans—
the water, the salt; even
the sands giving away
like fact
beneath your feet.
There was nothing to say
back then; only the splutter

of milk. I dream
about touch.


*Kim's homepage: http://www.kimtriedman.net/

Preverbal

by Kim Triedman

Imagine the sun as it was, yesterday –
and the dog
barking

down a long and windy afternoon. Hours

extrapolate like bold ideas,
like nerves

branching,
and shadows stretching
taut
toward the cusp

of what will be. There is a
music you can hear
in a room

you never knew existed. Listen

to the dog.
Trip your fingers
down the ladder
of the sun
between the leaves. Close

your eyes—the wind is
talking up a storm.


*Kim's homepage: http://www.kimtriedman.net/