As You Perfectly Well Know

Thin haze and hiss of static: oh,
the miracle is all here, as you perfectly
well know – and yet “ecstatic”

strikes you grimly: somewhere dimly out
beyond the hiss and haze’s cloudy
glow – past which you clearly

cannot go. You’ve pushed your aging
body through the layers of the day:
both it and you’ve acquitted

yourselves nicely, given circumstances –
which are: what? Every moment
butts and inches toward the end

and it would seem the only interest
that extends to you right now
is this intensifying sense that if

there is a purpose to the whole shebang
it isn’t to persuade you of a unity
at all; but rather to accommodate

you to the stark necessity of tuning
yourself to the perfect pitch required to
sing solo – in the thrall of the abyss.

Though you suspect this may
have something just a bit to do with
your just having given and received

a kiss – for which you hadn’t realized
until now you’d harbored hope.
Left you feeling like a dope.


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