Petulant

It's surely not that we can't spot some reason

for a thing: most casts of mind exist to find

a rationale for their proclivities: enough at least

to scratch provisionally some small itch

of worrying about why one has done whatever

one has done: but with infinity inhabiting eternity,

all bets are off: the lie is put to causes and effects,

and one suspects one's energy is better angled

toward the votive than to sussing out a motive:

to laud, exalt, exult in the impossibility of being

clear on being here. And yet proscriptions make

me petulant: I sigh. I still intend to find out why.

.