Every Blasted Bit

The seeing it, the doing it,
the getting it, the giving back:
kind of reciprocity you'd like is
show and tell and body contact,
offhand sweetly cyclical sublimity,

playful silly existential alchemy –
the active interaction. Ah – but
you’ve exhausted every faction
of the Senate of the Self –
you’ve led each to the feast

and have not yet experienced
the least of what you thought
would be the living proof –
somebody goofed. So you resort
to sport – and every time you’re

up at bat and swing at yet
another importuning ball you either
miss or bunt it: can’t get anyone
to want it: will not reach a mitt.
Wonder what it takes to fit.

Letting go of every blasted bit.


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