Type and the words shall appear. A punch. A rock through a window. The fiery finger of a subducted and boiling mass.
A stretch to fill all mornings. A skip across the waters. A slide down a slippery slope. A lingering note.
Red fading in lament that the sting may linger but never last.
Prose and poem in part, in past
present and shifty now, all searching for a finger’s grasp.