A drumbeat, like a humming echo,
Alights faintly from a conscious, tightening mind.
And you indifferently continue to write on; as if
Nothing in us has turned you on;
Without a quiver, taking your time
For an unrecorded moment’s unrecorded flirt,
Subtle friction, is no recorded crime; is
But an intense line of poem without diction.
A faint moment’s touch which, if not turned into habit,
The rapture in memory will miss altogether much.