In Books

when words make love sentences are born
the world’s heft is changed by the weight of nouns
the hesitations of hyphens and commas 
like the space between breaths 
tell the rhythm of what’s new and what’s been
the dead stops of periods spell the end of what a breath holds
adjectives, like the blood blush of infants,
color clauses, articles wrap things in skin,
pronouns, unlike the particular names of new beings,
sometimes identify the generalities of their forms by inclusion,
by saying, “We,” suggesting that mine and thine share,
and verbs are the darting eyes of fresh life,
the spastic gestures of unfamiliarity, the random smiles
that pass in the faces of infants suddenly uncalled for
and of course the cautious steps of the old
reaching for footholds 
that once came naturally,
without thought, too soon
 after the preface
and foreshadows
of epilogues
Jim Culleny