Thursday, April 2, 2015

UNTOLD

Locked up tight
inside every single—
tiny drop 

of grey rain
clinging to your windowpane—
are lots 

and lots 
of—islands 

of completely 
empty space;
but wait—that 

is 
not the
strange part—for silence,

that great
and profoundly
immeasurable thing—is somehow also circumscribing 

each of their boundless contents
entirely,
though not

in space—but 
time. 

It's as if—sure as 
a thing like
everlasting rain

can yet get stuck
in a few lines
of poetry;


infinity—
still
leaves plenty 

of room—for eternity.

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