poetry by j matthew waters


nobody knew what it meant
but they went with it
thinking [amongst themselves]
they’d figure it out as they went along

it was a strand
not like a piece of cloth
not like tungsten inside
an incandescent vessel
but like the tiniest clue
a piece of a key
an eighth of the characters
from an ancient code

its length is immeasurable
stretching beyond the milky way
likely visible than not
capable of shaping itself
into a chameleon
or a firefly
a child’s teardrop

december two thousand twenty-two
copyright j matthew waters
all rights reserved

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