It Comes After

The Sense of Importance Arrives In the Review

It was ordinary.
In the bathroom.
Sound of water running, smell of soap, morning light.

Then
a brief focusing: up, in.
Something wandering, caught.

—

It moves like a sequence, almost.
Four.
Counting comes in looking back, after.

—

It wasn’t the what of it,
it was the way it moved.

—

Next,
a slight jolt.
To say that
is already too much.

—

And that’s it.
Clean.
Something like matter-of-fact.

—

Now:
I go back,
use more words.
In parts.
Small, sequential beats.
One thought,
stitched together,
done by itself.
A structure.

Then
the sense:
undeniably automatic.
It lands quickly.
Fits.

And with it
the sense of importance.
But even this
comes after.

—

These words aren’t wrong,
just approximate.

The moment itself had no narration.
No this means this.

Just
that.

—

Hot water still running.
Steam. Fan. Body.

—

What remains:
To say “seen”
doesn’t quite land.

“Felt,”
not that either.

“Important”
only comes with the review.

Then—
a pull to settle it:
no one there, no doing, only done.

It holds.

—

Or,
something moving.
Words arriving last.

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