Whatís here is not
a flame; more like a voice
that briefly speaks, then fades to nothingness,
leaving enigmas no one can reduce.
Or if itís not a voice, then just an urge
to shape the shifting world that looms so large
and imprecise on visionís ragged edge.
Not even an urge in that too-frequent time
when all you seek is just a quiet room
in which to escape the fast, persistent stream Ö
But only ticks of seconds passing and
fog lifting for a glimpse, then settling in,
then by the grace of chance lifting again.