Our days stuffed, decision’s entitled palm
a wind against our forward movement.
Never tremory or apologetic but expectant,
present like our own mirrored faces flipped.
We answer most often without a
hesitating thought, splitting seconds
and significance with our guts.

And those rare moments when time pauses
hung on the heavy drape of potential
to consider consequence, effect, desire
in the silence that pulls at the inner ear.
Each a firm fingernail on soft wood
recollecting impression and mem’ry,
a micro liter from the ocean of days
equally dark, reflective as the whole
measuring depth and surfaces’ stretch
against sky.

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