Ravenous,
we fall upon reality –
create
and then succumb
to
the P.R. that gets us to desire
a
piece of taffy, or a thigh,
or
the bestriding force
of
Shakespeare’s Lear.
We
commandeer the course
of
all the little bits of precious
evidence
our eyes comprise
to
utilize as proofs that they
and
we are here. It is a gorgeous
enterprise,
this grand compulsion
to
resize and reconfigure form
and
scent and taste and feel,
to
render an exquisitely
inimitable
physics of the “real” –
to
make it warm, to make it
seethe
and breathe: to conjure up
a
self we may not have to rue.
What
else is there to do?
.
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