earth is a place in which a poem is produced at least once a minute
or so it seems
HePo has spaces in between
how we love to linger amongst those
but not everything ends up here
and so much goes unsaid
there is ink on page - an anachronism in these days
as waves crash down on sand - unrelenting
on all the beaches
witnessed or unwitnessed
lost in the solar wind
perchance, I saw yours
perchance, you saw mine
and perchance, an arc sparked, cross this distance
in this fleck of time