by Richard Vince

My fingers make marks
On black print wherever
They land to rearrange
This corner of the world.

The marks are the same
Even if I lift my fingers
Almost as soon as they
Come to rest; itÂ’s always
The same pattern, the
Same added level of
Darkness on the surface
That somehow gives light
To everything else.

Suddenness fools me
Into failing to expect
The predictable.


Posted on 05/13/2005
Copyright © 2022 Richard Vince

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