Biting the back of my index finger
on my left, less prominent hand.

Feeling the tension, feeling the wet
of the little spit leaking out.

My eyes close and I hold the pose
for a few seconds, then stop.

Maybe it will matter someday
what I say here about what I did?

I doubt it will make much difference
to anyone, anyone at all.

The moment will pass by almost all
like a dolphin just offshore —

a pretty sight, yes, but so common.
Still, it might cause a thrill; so might this

poem, or whatever it is. I can’t call it that.
Isn’t it too small to hold such a large weight?

Anything I write holds so little and yet
so much. Like a dolphin hurtling

through gray waves — alone or with
others — doesn’t concern itself

with what the watchers think.
It’s too large to hold such small thoughts.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
onward,
T