Like a lost memory, this dawn reaches for day but does not make it. Not on the tip of the almost-naming mother tongue, but not attempted, with no other reaching back. For this cold egg, unable to hatch, too late arrives too soon. All around here, there is so much else to do. But name it. Lost memory, reach us remembering back. With the presence. Of mind to forget the sleek. Driving idea, its compelling speed. These are children. To mourn.
Some good prose.