.
She or he was spawned by a
random imagination –
Darwin’s mutation – but randomness
shocks like
.
a fetish in sex: surely we’re
something compassionate
logic intends and projects! What
would things mean
.
if we weren’t? Predation has hungers
to feed it.
Wouldn’t exist if the thing
weren’t needed. But flowers
.
and weeds in the breezes with
no special ends are like
all that upends and distends and
engenders this being:
.
he or she loves to dress up to the
uppity Up-ness, way out
with a shout beyond grout, gout
and doubt and surmise,
.
morphologically sprouting
unreason, whatever the season,
and yet without effort
sustaining a steady and gentle
.
acknowledgment of all of the
busy be-jeezus that teases
in front of, around and below and
behind those kind eyes.
.
Why should this be a surprise? Or
why be surprised
at surprise? One wants to
believe Truth is spherical.
.
No ruptures to break its smooth
skin. But what then to
make of the miracle? Which is every
last thing in the spin?
.
Surely nothing’s a miracle
then. Oh no! oh-no, oh-no,
oh-no, oh-no, the she-and-the-he
in her-her-and-her-him
.
overflow in a bum rush to me. I
was beginning to guess
at the rest. Never has oh-no
seemed more like oh-yes.
.
Language and life are a lunatic
billet doux. Unsaddled,
unbridled – embracing, for no
godly reason, you.
.
.
.
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