I Like Milk

The utterly reliable completeness with which refrigerated milk fulfills
whatever yearning my mouth, soul and psyche regularly bring to it
recalls the barest glint and whiff, vestigial trace, the almost utterly
forgotten grace not of my childhood so much as of the source of
something farther, farther – so much farther back than human
intercourse of any kind; beyond all genesis of Mind: where
had a sentient spirit somehow come to be, and thought

to seek to find it – the rebounding echo of the vast and
pounding first primordial Lack to which the Big Bang
rushed with its attractions – might have offered all
at once its absolution of an answer to all vexing
existential fears. That, perhaps, begins to say,
convey some fraction of the bliss with which,
through years, I’ve turned to the experience

of this entirely efficient counteraction to the
visceral somatic memory of that first dire
abyss. Whatever factions of experience
have since ensued – whatever cyclic
eons in which energy and matter
have become unglued,
construed

or
mis-
construed –
there can
have
been
no

greater
satisfaction in
one bit of it – no
sweeter glory – than
what is hinted at, implied

inside the story I can tell about
the way a gallon of refrigerated milk,
sipped through the night, so incrementally
provides its perfect and divine delight, through its
suggestive pearl-white flow of potable sweet liquid silk.

.