I’d write it down or try
To remind myself to write
It later: the flash in the pan, the crack
The quick burst of light

Exploding in silence
Out of frame
Too fast, too much
Movement before catching

Hands in the dark, the form
Of something missed or something
Missing, hiatus
Or development, the time

It takes for shapes to emerge
Or day to merge with night
The god-forsaken waiting
Picture this: a way of living

I’d rather try to hold
It in my hands after
The fact; I’m always coming back
I like to get carried away sometimes

When evening lingers in the leaves
Of fall, scattered winter, bitter
Chill, our breaths still visible
& capable of being cupped

My senses swoon
The rest is rust & stardust
The smell of my own flesh
Things I can’t name or don’t know

How to say, I was the rag stuffed in your mouth
I hope you hear me