Might Be True

I don’t believe the word for anything is “try” –
nor do I think that anyone procrastinates.
But then I don’t believe in Future, either, or
the Past, or, frankly, have much confidence
in thinking I’ve the least right sense of Present.

Something sometimes seems as if it were a “now,”
but by the time I’ve noticed it, it’s gone: and
we're all on to some quite other dawn. I say all
this not in the hope that any of it will persuade –
or even offer much of interest: it’s collectively

a spade I use to undermine my certainties –
not yours. You’ll believe what you’ll believe,
what pours the best imaginable mead to drink:
what sprouts the seed you need to help you think –
on the brink of glory: hunting down the story.

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Here’s the tale I’ve come to tell: once there
was a little child who fell into a well so deep
that it was darker and more interesting than
sleep. When she hit the bottom she discovered
something so uniquely resonant, illuminating

and exquisitely unnecessary that she felt herself
to be quite like it: she was all that it and she
imagined: under this kabooming influence,
she morphed into a pageant of eternities, each
one a different color, each entirely unconscious

of the other: blooming ribbons made of God,
as multi-colored as a slowly disentangling
wad of day-glo-bright confetti strings: a circus
sense of everything began to make her sing –
and she is what you hear when you hear you.

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Might be true.


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