I repeat myself.
Use the same words,
over and over.
The subjects I use
are kernels left over from living.
I’ve never strayed far from home.
My brother died across an ocean.
I wave farewell at least once a year.
The same tears.
Sorrow in a pool of silent fish.
Sometimes I forget him for months.
I recline in sentiment,
but remain silent,
saying nothing for days.
Then I repeat myself,
trying to get things right.
How many times have I said,
I love you,
and been astonished?
Often,
because my heart breaks easily
but in the morning turns up whole,
put together by a mystery
that keeps me company.
Never tells me what to do,
or how to do it,
as I say,
I love you,
over and over,
the only way I can.