Auf Wiedersehen

Not between the proverbial rock
and a hard place, but between
the softer and the harder

impermanence: therefore,
everything’s improvisation,
the voice thrown against

a closet wall, into a room,
into the rifts between rock.
And each time, a slight echo

returns: little eddy
and reminder, little
reverberation—

The train in passing goes.
Light dips beyond the trees.
A hand, lifted in that slow-

motion gesture of waving.

 

In response to Morning Porch and thus: such tender emptiness.

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