274/365

every time it feels impossible
all over again. building
a something out of this nothing.
especially with tools as dull
as these words, living in this
languid language.

there’s a trickle like
a tiny snow melt creek
into a fleeting stanza pool.
the click clack of the keys
a spurt and stop- gentle machine gun
fire without causalities.

silence.
waiting.    
absolution.

one spoke of a beloved
one spoke of multitudes

i too am mad for it to be
in contact with me.

when will
i remember
who to be?
how will
i tell you
about it?