Primes of Your Life

What’s the prime of your life? Does everyone have one?

Does anyone not? Does a prime help to put us above

our defects for a moment to peak at a ghost of perfection? 

From what we could nickel and dime out of nonverbal Being,

we guess we'd opine: every moment is prime. A prime climbs

into and out of each instant, each breath. Peer at the guts of 

a moment: observe every blundering sweet flippereeno therein

simultaneously giving birth, shooting up to a height, falling 

down into death, all at once in the fray. The fray is the interesting 

part of this art: ragged wisps at the edges that slip from what 

was to what is and that carry the substances new primes 

require to ingest, digest and egest new desires whose fires 

ignite their own bright consummations, whose ashes mesh

into the bits of the rest of the fray’s restless births, breaths

and deaths: whose inventions assure that the spin of the thing

we are in of the fray, or whatever makes use of the fray, 

causes all of this endless array: although there’s no time, there’s

a prime, and a prime and the primest of primes and they’re

happening, all of them, now and they’re breeding themselves

in your cells and your absences, fatuously manufacturing

blips of perfection, occasions to lure us, assure us, that we’ve

the perception to catch and to know them. One might

if one had to requite the frail question of “why?” dare to prod

with a toe from the fray of our curtain of dark to the fringe

of a glow underneath some suggestion that this was indeed,

should we need to define (and confine) it with words,

to be found flitting ‘round – little birds! – in His/Her/Its

loose-fitting gowns, the whispers of God’s predilection.

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