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brook running
never saw enough
all these lives
suggestions
spirits whole enough
just to leave
impressions
feint and haunt
then one day flood back
as if all detail had been
stored in a wound
brook running
come to pass
they pass
to come to pass again
living on my sense
more real than the
hard and fast
which now is limbo
tomb and stone to fix
me as what they call and pass
from the stream
brook running
start and call and pull
remind with dancing pall
that I forget
and then the only
comfort in the
phantom sound
is that
still moving
brings this too
to pass
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