1.
A forgotten key
cannot mourn the loss of its lock
or openly lament its lack of purpose

any more than I can remember
the number on the old house
where I was murdered in a dream.

2.
A poem stashed in a file box
is unable to plead its case;

an abandoned guitar
will not serenade you from a closet.

3.
Silence itself is a forgotten thing,
being the opposite of a voice,
the ultimate default – not a victim,
but a gentleman awaiting his turn.

4.
I never tell you,
but I want to be held like a belief,
and wholly known with grace;

I never invite you,
but I wish you would move easily
through the venues of my exile.

5.
I do not recall my initial echo,
or if there was one.

Hugh does not prefer to talk about himself in the third person, but if he did, he'd tell you he's in a self-imposed exile on the east coast of the USA, but still loves his former home in the Sonoran Desert. He is the author of Odd Numbers And Evensongs and Auditions For The Afterlife.