So many things can happen in between.
Closing your eyes, you watch the ghosts
of paramecia. Waiting for the words to arrive, you inhale the tang of fish sauce
and carbon monoxide, thin streams of salt and metal in air turgid with
approaching rain. The senses attenuate, with no clear direction. The imprecision
of impressions does not resolve into a story, a poem, an arrow. Pen and paper do
not connect.
When they do, what closes the
gap?