Have I written this before, some version
of life on a line?

I felt this way once, I’m sure;
I sometimes equivocate certainty.

Thoughts don’t really end, like sentences do.
I know that.

Words and minds enjoy the feign and dodge,
the bump and grind.

Poring pawing rain is a massaging
Braille, through my ears to somewhere inside.

Millions of miniature puddles kick up
visions without punctuation.

I elect to witness,
not write.

The silence within drops
is the difference between.

Chagall 2018

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