rivulets tributaries

studying variations of silence
he lives sequestered, at home.
His rhythm patterned as fugue.

The antechamber is a pile
of letters unread. None
of the envelopes have even

ever been opened.
What had started as play
became a strict set of rules.

Thinking only was done
in a rocking chair of fake time.
From these elements sequences

knotted matter & memory
into possible moments
of stories neither imagined

or written . Had they existed
as tales,- arcs & plots
might have unfolded, as

intimations of symptoms,
or fragments of melodies,
recognized nor remembered

by him or any mind-body-soul
forever, now, or ago.

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