The words come
barreling out of a book,
slightly
round in shape,
yet sharp and angled
at the flutter of fingertips.
A quick drip of "and"s,
then a torrent
of "dust"s
tumble into my hand.
So I lay their broken bones
like a wrong symphony,
flat on my palm.
They appear crisp-skinned
with veins of toasted brown.
A concerted sigh.
I gather them into
a pile of alphabet
grief.

-- Lana Bella