That’s how it works.
You’re stuck in a dream
and without knowing
much of anything make
the best of it and if not
the best, an absolute mess,
causing your airy head
to like a stone sink into
your cold-sweat palms,
elbows strafing an endless
desk of industrial and
post-industrial horror –
the modern world.
You suspect God’s an
anarchist and admit you
like belief which transforms
you into an archangel, a
nimbus, the celebrating
Sun. Who knows what
anything means and all
that given all that may be
a load of crap and so may
anything unless there is
no load. Unless this phase
is waltzing us – one two
three – one two three –
through a dust-mote galaxy
where someone, say,
Spinoza, sips cocoa or
Yemenite coffee grown in
Amsterdam’s botanical
gardens. Through lenses
ground to a halt sees life as
a run-through, considers
a compassionate mover’s
blueprints for lives of virtue
or indolence subcontracted
to each of us at birth, sees
artists sipping coffee and
revelation. Sees his sister,
Spinoza’s sister, why not,
Mozart had one. Emotionally
curious like he is she sights
a presence surpassing logic,
like he does, but nothing in
the universe surpassing pain.