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.