Suddenly there's the desire to feel

everything I was about to say--but didn't.

All the unnoticed word-inhales, to the

waved off no-nothings.

Not given vent, just reexperiencing

all that courseless inexpression.

What was discernment's wisdom

guarding against to build toward?

One's confronted with heavy empirical

alterations--had the needle met fabric.

What sensation would that unvoiced

crest produce?

Precarious as sharks pacing storm bands

over warm waters--the unsaid developes.

With that, I direct it back to thirty years

ago today--what would that interaction

feel like?

Based on the assumption that nothing

cataclysmic occurred thirty years ago

today--though certainly not in relativistic

terms on both days.

It's astonishing how pertinent

information can omit dates while

pointing at them.

Even if I were to ditto the date with

different years, their currency may as

well be in The Ferryman's pocket.

He's not even laconic on such musings,

though he does take a shine to them.

I should like to **** AI to such musings.

So a lifetime of stifled articulation would

burden the climate of this day thirty

years ago--now.

Would I be alive, live where I live, call

who I call--write what I write?

Say...no say?

I didn't.