That space between the linesRemains mute for mostLike a feast where nothing is served. Those who can, willSee a cache of blood-stained knivesAnd say: It is well-deserved. There can be barbed wiresGently palming and calmingDesperation that wants to escape. Or incomplete picturesOf nearly forgotten treksThrough the human landscape. That space between the linesSometimes needsA closer...