You try to tack a story onto everyoneyou see – but human impulse
doesn’t lend itself so easily
to the declarative. Everybody’s reaching
in a fog. Resorting to the susurrating
narratives of blog. Sentimental
takes abort. Not every baby’s cute.
Relationship’s a doomed pursuit
if by relationship you mean an answer.
Everyone’s a fancy dancer,
hungry for acclaim, strangely eager
to take blame. No one is aware
of having asked to be alive.
But maybe that’s exactly what we did.
On some somatic pre-Socratic level
of the devil in the dive into
the center of a heart, perhaps
we planned each nuance of the theory
and application of the art – of being here.
Disingenuously we insist that all
will always be unclear: indissoluble nexus,
an impenetrable blot. But secretly,
insidiously – somewhere deep –
perhaps we know it’s not.