I wonder what we are crowing about
Page after page, on a night’s wastes
As written word, too quickly, passes
Like a bubble that held the moment.
The moment is a stone in the pocket
That we have picked up in a summit
To hold , to smell a flint-like passing
And empty pocket for another stone.
The transience is a brief eye contact
With the page, a stone to smell fire
As spark too frequent , fire to ashes,
A recurring tribal motif from a cave.