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.