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.

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