Existence Offends Propriety

You tell me I don’t ever finish a tale.

That I go and I stop and am slow

as a snail. Some people must flail

to prevail – others achieve the ephemeral it

by espying a calm place to sit – and indeed

then proceed there serenely to sit.

You resort to a snit. You ask

aren’t there infinite ways in the Cosmos to fit?

But fit into what? What are we fitting by sitting

or throwing a fit? Why do we yearn for an it?

What is there out there or in here to fit? Words

are the girders, drills, rivets and bits that beatify,

gratify, ratify leptons into a wine spritzer which

fritzes in Waterford glasses that clink

from the rims of which we then suppose

we can drink, so we drink. When do we get

to the brink? We now know the answer to that,

we think. Brink is a word. Words are a brink. Edges

and contrasts and shadows and battles skedaddle

into a great sink with a drain that attains an abyss

wherein that becomes this, wherein fitting is it,

we can sit in a snit, we can flail

and prevail and at last

I can finish a tale.

Existence offends propriety.

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