From what I hear,
there’s this long, long epic of a tale
and my particular story
is told in one particular paragraph
out of a trillion trillions of the things.
And, within the paragraph,
my life doesn’t go beyond one measly sentence,
and, in the sentence itself,
it hardly merits a word.
or even a letter for that matter.
I think of myself
as being on the curve of an S
and in the shadow of the preceding apostrophe.
I’m part of the possessive case.
For what I possess,
for what possesses me,
A WINDOW VIEW
Winter solstice rain,
dark at the window,
a flake of ice
skims down the glass.…