Thursday, November 15, 2012



Just when you decide
you’ve got it sorted out,
your psychic waters rise –
and suddenly
you can’t afford to field
your speculative doubt –

or wield meticulous surmise:
bold cognitive
foundations now are cold
and wet and getting colder,
wetter – nothing’s getting
better: all is heavily

becoming mud. Soon
the apparatus of your
delicate calamities
will soak it up like blood.
Dumb thickness will replace
your fascinating sickness.

You’ll blink instead
of think. Some blundering
will steal your evanescence
like a thuggish thief.
Oh, the relief!


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