A Sly Bunch

Instincts may appear to be at war –

wearied by a permanent

condition of ambivalence: the chore

of keeping whole the firmament

while tugging at cross-purposes’

opposed effects, to hover

over all your nervous surfaces

to quiet them enough to cover

up their enmity: to pull the punch

to make it seem like you’re in balance.

But instincts are a sly bunch:

hiding wonderfully availing talents

for pretense: bombing through

as if they’re warriors advancing

toward another doomed snafu

when really they are dancing –

and having

much more

fun than

you.

.