The Drip from the Fingertip
There was a time
we stenographed
for the Stream...
My short hand
barely skimmed
the surface
of Its meaning,
submersed as
part of Conscious
dreaming...
Or so I thought
till finding
at the Wake
the real pages
from which
Imagination
was gleaning
were streaked
with smears...
Rippling within
waves of far-off
fears and regrets
for things
we'd failed
to hear...
It's the space
between
that echos
now...
or so it
seems
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