Involuntary Response to Playing Bach All Week

Every instant
you scoop handfuls of it up –
almost never knowing that you are –
though sometimes glimpsing
that the only justice you could do it
is to say the hell with it
and dive half-blind into its profligacy –

overwhelming lust – try at least to be
a semi-conscious part of its unending
glittering entropic dust: it is – we are –
of course, detritus of an over-ripened star:
which is itself the blow-out from
the blasting well of energy and matter
which they say cannot be added to or lost

and yet comprises that arcane
vicinity we call infinity: in other words,
we are an inexplicable bright mess
and all that I can guess about
behaving in the face of it is this:
do exactly what you were about to do
and call it bliss.

.