Your Psychic Law

Short zizzes of electric shock,
cascades of spark – a spray
of kernels popping into thought –

or half-thought – something oddly,
quickly, wrought – a taste,
in haste, of something welling up

inside that can’t seem to emerge
in any other way: this is the intermittent
splay and splice of you, the sense

in you of something to be fed
which cannot be precisely met
or served: you give and take

the crumbs of something ultimately
numbing: maybe that’s why you
can’t contemplate the whole,

why so much must be held back,
in reserve – to keep the hunger
and the satiation of it partial:

swallowing the loaf entirely would
prematurely fill too many caverns in
the soul, leave too much packed:

you need your fragile fractal openings –
you need the ache of wanting more –
you need the palliative satisfaction

of confusion which maintains
a wobbly comfort which has somehow
turned into your psychic law: wed

to the unknown as if it weren’t quite
entirely unknown: to promulgate
delicious tension bred from

sparking, arcing, bright electric stabs
at proofs and refutations that
you may, or may not, be alone.


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