What poetry can form in the endless spaces that separate us?
In these streets life enters like tiny grains of sand under doors and loose window frames.
It is brushed out again in the morning with an impatient sweep of the hand.
A little of it sometimes strays and carves a tiny groove as it pens a sad rasping song underfoot.
That too is inaudible and lost to us.
Like that sand, souls are unseen, their stories unheard.
A million or more each day.