Who’s the you who says you've had enough?
We're made exactly of the same blunt stuff
as infants, always, sleeping to rebuff the injuries
of our unknowing, dreaming to make urgent sense
of something – anything; then, dragging thick
and slow behind the body, comes the wordful mind:
conjuring up reasons for its causes and effects –
resorting to the shocks, release of laughter,
crying – or surrendering to sighing when it can't
remotely find its bearings, clocking impasses
with howls or swearing or a frozen shutting-down:
a disingenuous deployment of façade: since
nothing shuts or opens, ever, only flows,
and so it (add the gerund of the “f” word) goes.
A late baroque concerto grosso in F major does
the momentary trick: distracts you into thinking
corseted amusements might cut through
the thickness: Handel’s gentle fugue and melody,
so much less taxing than Herr Bach’s, allow
you to imagine stimulation doesn't have to
irritate. But ha! – tough (add the gerund of
the “f” word) luck. The sweetly intertwining strings
remind you of your yearning for a certain kind
of touch, and everything is once again too much.