The Hang of It

Not just the nose but consciousness
is dripping wet: it’s soaked up all
it can today – though finds no sway

of sense: no sensitivity distills
a congruent display, a singular extract –
instead: continuous soft gibberish:

a constant spatter of the disparate:
the hums, perhaps, of ghostly cosmic
gamma rays, unceasing echoes

of the nemesis of genesis: which
holds the secrets of beginnings, ends
in an eternally imponderable ecstasy:

sometimes you think you feel
and hear and taste – and even can
articulate – the haunting bang of it.

(Or maybe it’s your head cold.) Oh,
to say one irrefutably illuminating thing!
You can’t quite get the hang of it.

.