Intensity reflexively burns, involutes and burrows
down to show her once again around the complicated
and demanding ground of her besieged imagination:
running laps along perimeters of college tracks
and other curving obligations, she steals inadvertent
naps: browns out while listening to lectures
on haphazard probabilities of quarks and gluons
or while whipping up a squash frittata or attempting
to sort out the hemiolas in a Brahms sonata or regarding
the marauding legions of so many other endless bristling
bits of academic lives: professors and their wives
and husbands reassembling heated speculations into
yet new passionate articulately argued inexplicabilities:
a tease for which she sees no resolution save the careful
molding of her hair: outmoded to remind her of her mother
circa 1962: whose helmet of a permanent appeared
to keep her there, serene and capable of gentle reason: oh,
to find the habitable mental season she is sure could
be her climate if they’d stop pretending these vacuities
were deep! How lovely it would be to really sleep.
.
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