On Not Being Enthralling

I am the least enthralling thing.
What interests is this vibrant multi-valent
creature of a universe which wants
exactly nothing – but demands precisely all.

What interests are its unsuspected
and innumerable means of rising, falling,
skittering and stumbling, tumbling into
caves or plains or seas or skies of endlessly

renewing stark experience: so seamlessly
conjoined that to imagine seams
appears unwise. What interests is
the moment stoking, filling everything

to spilling – cooking it to brittle crisp: what
rivets is the grilling. I am not enthralled
by me. I’m enthralled by the astounding
manifested conjugations of “to be.”


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