Fascinates me
with its
hardly there self

Often hiding
something
folded inward

This long crease
a fault line
or spine

depends
doesn't it
we think in parallel

forces sandwich
a choice
differently each time

as if
there is
no crust
on just now
writ small

and I can hear
the light rain
cry December down
the storm glass
in rivulets

something in me
reaches for tiny
home of that look
u get or give
that say's everything

It all seemed too much
posed as chaos
U ache to encircle
spray it down
to the ground

That it always
comes back
clue
not confounding
Co

Surprising
what i see
now as me
or me
as it

Lines not drawn



Copyright@2018 Dennis Willis