Increase. A poem of lines.

Could it be a rivulet for sweat,
the crease just below the stem?
Maybe that is where thoughts
collect at the back of the neck.

I find myself running my finger
along it east to west.
I stare at elderly linear divots,
gullies which underline their

retention pond of experience.
Many years they’ve kept their chin up.
Maybe that is why the creases
increase, line upon line.

Maybe that is why thoughts spill,
and the neck, like a downspout, carries.
If so, I pray for more chin-ups
and memory catching indentations.

I hope when we hug each others neck
we are able to read them with fingertips
on inverse bumps of brail
and exchange thoughts.

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