Sometimes when the
longing wind of impulses
is high on the hand till
it is nightfall and the
*
luminescent fireflies
in the blood search
for the words
circling around the
vast dark spaces
between the moments
in my diary
*
the distance between
the letters spreads
into a blank page
where the moments fall
in black and white
like the passing clouds.
*
The ash of time
then becomes a memory.