by Stephen Tully Dierks
Let's talk about nothing.
I want to not-talk with you.
It could be nice to not-talk.
We could not-talk until we're dead.
My dad said I am not my thoughts.
My mom said the old man at church was "dead but they forgot to tell him to lie down."
Lately my mom sounds hurried when I talk to her on the phone.
Her knees are bad and her spine.
The breeze moves the sadness around but it never goes away.
In the shallows of the lake I put my feet on your feet, you put your feet on my feet.
You wrote in the sand and the water washed it away and you wrote it again and the water washed it away.
Stephen Tully Dierks is an author living in Chicago. He edits the magazine Pop Serial.