James C. Baloian

The tongue tiptoes with sober breaths
drawing ghosts from the weathers
of worn furniture and always alone
the fallen conversations of inquiring hands
the approaching dawn on the quietness
of remembering past moments
possessed with accusing shapes
erupts into iridescent migraines
leaving blank spaces across a frontier
that winks out a nervous summons
and waits to be fulfilled
where the lips reclaim the edge of delicate hours
life closes in and waits
to be fulfilled