Beyond Your Scope

Surely it is measurably chemical –
a matter of what neurotransmitters
decide to flood or trickle: something
must account for why the mind
reflects the fickle sky: which now
is roiling from a February wind
confused about its temperature:
too warm for winter, splintering back

to the cold, or trying to – as if there
were some reasonable fold
to find and hide inside – to scurry
from this strange unseasonable business –
depict some habitable sense
of what should be from what too
harrowingly is – or seems to be:
but ah! – look out again, and see

the glory of the gray invite your fears
to spend themselves among these
scattered rays of animated day: as if
the way to govern feelings were to send
them reeling into nonsense. You’ve
wandered like a miserable Heathcliff
every night this week through peaks
and hollows of half-sleep: you go

and stop – pop into apertures
of dream-cloud – in and out of inner
sight – then back into the half-light
of half-waking. Everything is like
the quaking light right now: fearsome,
darkly funny, glorious – enough
to cow you into receptivity – you hope.
Outcomes are beyond your scope.

.