subtext

Thought. The drips and dribbles

of disconnection noticed briefly during

the day’s encounters.  The beginning

of time as the vole bends a difference

between one grass blade and the next.

An epiphany caught along a pattern’s

cusp:  the sun rises again; the new

moon returns; a wolf howls against

the dark; we eat and are eaten.

We lift wheat’s ova to our mouths;

Steam lifts from the hard crust.

One image rubs upon another, like

the infinite unfolding of the horizon

as one walks distracted into the west.

An edge opens to another, and

is seen – – if only for the moment – –

as not us, not you, not me, but

an existence – – a separate thought.