They have just passed. The lines.
Just passed. For the umpteenth time.
They are so fast. Like virtue,
you write of it, the Tao says, when it's no more.
I had them all on the tip on my tongue, and pen.
my pen wasn't at hand and
I was too lazy or drunk or normal to look for one at once.
And again, the right thing slurred and blurred
in between the lines of the day,
the present that lures you into words like flashes,
and passes on, leaving you golden and astray.