M.R. Mandell

I feel like my poems

go on and on.

I want to fill them

with every sip, every

twist, every cheek,

every wink, every taste,

every hiccup, every cough,

every burn, every bend,

every bow, every light,

every dusk, every dew,

every drop, every wave,

every wing, every splash,

every shine, every bloom,

every leaf, every wind,

every breeze, every breath,

every touch, every curse,

every cut, every bleed,

every kick, every kiss on

my shoulder, every shiver

up my spine, every tear

on my lash, every slice

in my vein, every life that’s

walked through mine,

every friend who has gone,

the me that’s left behind.

See what I mean?

I do this all the time.