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
