Up from under the window’s light
passing through the haze
– room dusking –
to graze your fingers,
there, for a moment, now, the future.
All these words, sitting there, ready to be used.
Called up out of the hiding space of your throat.
Called in to the narrow cleft of your ear.
Up and over the curlicue of your breath
out over the void you left behind.
Outside, there is no outside.
Action, thought, why we hover here
on the cusp of what is about to occur,
on the band between here and then.
And cry and cry for what is yet to happen.