Yes, there is a beast, and yes, you’ve felt the zephyrs
of his breath: exhalations that address, caress, undress:
the softer essences of night and dawn; what you believe
you’ll undergo, have undergone, have been below, above
and in: bestowed upon you, unconsidered and luxurious,
like the voluptuous effects of breezes brushing skin.
Change requires no psychic quake or spew or radical
new view: no canyons need to be carved through,
no peaks need to erupt. Zephyr-breaths do not disrupt.
They breathe from what they are already – will succeed
in apprehending and abetting you affectionately as if you
were their beloved pet. You needn’t fret. Change need
not excruciate. Let its zephyr-breaths create, beget: sort
your predilections out, let go of doubt, to reconfigure you
a touch, not too much: enough so you are reassured
of getting absolutely everything – or knowing if you wanted
to, you could. Does this mean that the beast is very good?
You hope he is, but don’t know if you should. You feel
his breath. You’d bet that he’s a fact, but haven’t seen him
yet. Rumor is he doesn’t speak, he squeaks; doesn’t
creep, he flies. Maybe he’s a bat. Nothing wrong with that.
You hear he has arresting eyes. You surmise that if he’s
there – on sod, in air – he’d be a god you’d want. In that blunt
hope you let your faith rely. Other gods have left you dry.