Fine Flu Journal Fine Flu Journal- june 2014 | Page 24

GLEN ARMSTRONG
H.
Her middle initial was so concrete
that only time and the weeds underneath
could ever crack it,
could ever threaten her name.
She once read an entire book
about nothing
but the color blue
that seemed less real
than that one capital letter
immobilized by its great cast-iron period.
I took her hand and that was enough,
each finger neither a friend nor a voice.
Certainly not an answer.
A heather growing in the wild.
A touch complete enough.
Holding hands on a crisp autumn day,
an act at once too familiar and too formal.
A blue flower against a blue moon.
A whisper.
A hint at nothing more than the hint itself.
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