written by: Michael Shea
It’s been some time since;
a while indeed it has.
I don’t know quite when,
and vexed it leaves me.
I think I recall it but then again; no.
A tendril that lingers like forgotten dream,
at the tip of my finger; retreating as I close.
A sense of a drop so sudden it frightens;
bowl loosens then tightens and senses froze.
That time which has passed has left me,
and I want for it so.