“Well,” said Pooh, “what I like best,” and then he had to stop and think. Because although Eating Honey was a very good thing to do, there was a moment just before you began to eat it which was better than when you were, but he didn’t know what it was called.”
― A.A. Milne, Winnie-the-Pooh
The hover before the in breath,
milk ducts in an empty breast,
the stomach: a hallowed out bruise,
an arm contorted every way to ease a throbbing itch,
slack tide’s final pause,
the coyote hamming to the camera in the air just off the cliff,
my attention’s constant hole never empty yet—
Is it the ohm?
Is it those last shivering atoms releasing the reverberation of the gong,
the hum of what was catching up to the trumpet of what will be,
the sway of the air’s almost embrace of the planet’s constant spin?
Let’s linger here, eyes closed, tongues out to catch the first drops.
Not holding our breath, not rushing it either.
Life as Improv 