by Charles Kesler

There is a slight pause
between the thought
and the spoken, and written.

It is time,
a small time,
yet time.

It is space,
a small space,
yet space.

A syllable,
from mouth
to spoken.

A synapse,
a connection,

I have a thought.
The thought comes out
my fingertips.

Life extracts fishhooks
from meanings
never planned.

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