Only Apt Response to Anything

Let the vagrant drifting quantities of lengthening late  

summer light as they begin to tumble toward the night

bestow their strange alluring modal breaths – as if imbuing

air with music, deftly draining thought of all its expectation,

framing inner sight: so that what starts to fill you up

is something like the brightness someone blind might

conjure in her mind as she begins to find that somewhere

in the Universe exists experience of seeing. Shut your eyes;

unplug your last reflex assumption: make oblique departure

from the usual compartments of your being: then deploy

a dab of the contained immensity of this dimension like a rub

of gleaming paint upon a bristling tiny splice of space and time:

weave with it a chain of silver rhyme – drop it glittering into

the palm of the amorphously gemütlich suddenly availing god

you’ll see, who’ll guide you to the Odd. Then let the gentle

fellow float you down with him back through your soft façade.

Listen to him sing about the law of awe: how it’s the only apt

response to anything. Wait for what all that will bring!

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