Papier mache

Fixed in time’s gauze

    you falter for my craft.

I take the mist of our meeting

    and press fresh sheets from pulp

    first mulched in this full room.

I'd poke airholes through your layers

    if you said please...

But you're softer than ever now

    and I've never shouted louder.

These new voices share words as gifts;

    they tear shreds of your faint kindling

    to paint the wall’s warm patterns.

Speak, they say. We listen.

    I listen as they speak.