Just a Touch of Not Too Much

Strange, the stuff

you conjure up
from just a touch
of not too much:

as if you cannot bear
the brush of your unknowing:
tearing into any evidential
glimmer you can find

to reassure yourself
will reassure your mind:
accosting it with glowing blurs
of comprehensibility

which you’ve made up:
which you’ve laid up
like strawberry
preserves: palatable

proofs that you can point to
you can swallow –
eat and like – a treat.
It’s not a bad way,

probably, to counteract
the vertigo, savoring
illusions of a moral
verticality that puts the lie

to incongruity: all that’s
wavering and leaning.
You’re damned
if you’ve no meaning.







.