the quietude becoming
recalled to breath
a long cold porch
. . .
from the still
words are fluttered
key by key
come from silence
more than voice –
as bees to honey
moths to flame
I don’t know how
what am I
but a means becoming –
is grace allowed
or misplaced longing –
from the start
I can’t recall
where I was
when first I noticed
. . .
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