I thought a little, then a lot, about punctuation.

I've no problem being punctual, always on time,
but often I find the sentences -

I write contorting, ever-reaching for the right twist
and turn of phrase or way to break the obvious -

have trouble staying in the standardised model,
never knowing when, if or how to really end.

Pedantic, possibly, but as in the minutiae of
life I like to be as efficient and perceptive as I


Then she presents me with an opportunity to test
the limits, address the boundaries of what the dots
and dashes and curly-whurls can do.

She, that spark, that lick of flame in the dark of room,
the soft glow of comfort that starts out, grows out,

Even sixty miles apart the fizz and pop of chirpy fire
usually rises above the din of the every day.

And then out of nowhere that opportunity to measure the ambiguous -

I lie there, distant, yearning; I look up,
sense the candle, still burning