I am driven by a whim to find and only
settle on what caters to the whim.
That might be something I recall that she
was wearing or the smell of him
or something about which somebody sighed
that he must spare us the specifics:
a severed limb and its abandoned body he’d
not ever talk about, dismembered
as it was front of him. The absent tale, what
one kept hid, becomes, of course,
more dare to fantasize what had occurred
than listening to what he might
have said he thought or did or saw: a law
that governs interest. Pouring
more detail than I myself am wont to pour
upon a tale is, too. Ought I try
to ladle it out adjectivally, lavishly describe
just how it felt to fall into that
bubbling vat of fat whose steam then flatly
spat me out from a retreating
shroud of dream? I’m cloudy now about
just what the whim was here. I lack
the least idea, besides a dim recall that
whim is what the dream called
me.
(The smell of ‘him’ was me as well.) Which
alters the beginning to: I’m driven
by myself to find and only settle on what
caters to my minuscule entirety.
.
.
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