Q is the space between entering a room, and the realization that it is not invited-
the still confused, expectant little bird-
a brimming second glass of wine
Q is crescendo prior to piano-
a warmth remembered deeper and more visceral than others-
a tent in any forest
Q might pop in at the most uninvited and quiet of moments
amid symphony chorus, a choir clap
whilst everyone is pretending their hardest to be a writer
Q is a variable in a statistical analysis
solved for by children's laughter
separated by an integer greater than 1/3 of a lifetime
Q can only be what it is, and severely never impostor-
through its servitude to impunity, it is excluded from a waining gibbous-
only ever full moon
Q is drawn out by friends when it can
savored by the light of candles and cop cars
held open by irony and recollection, like a door for elderly admittance
Q is romantically, emphatically, unequivocally, the amount of time i/we should smile vs. how often i/we do.
it's me/us at the top of something I/we have not seen since I/we was/were a child/children, too short to reach up there, and ostensibly too young to care
31 October, 2013
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