It was a crawl space for thoughts,
a window slight with opening, a moment
of memory cutting in at the head of the line,
full of intensity and color, reminding us
of where we’ve been and the joy we achieved
once arriving.
It’s a wall without a door. A face without
a mouth. We feel the motion but are unable to
give it a title or explain its worth.
It’s a somewhere between open and close, that thin
line we step into without trying, rushing us
to a flavor place from the past; a fleeting
glimpse of our mechanical soul.
Roger Singer 