You want your narrative to flow
and yet sustain the sort of kinky
shadowed jagged interest
of a secret pornographic fantasy –
the one you’d have to write and draw
because nobody else could know
your brands of stop and go and hot.
Everybody’s in an unrelated spot.
So here you sit among your friends
whose mute collective consciousness
now bends, now straightens out,
now sinks, now rises, now surprises
with a coalescence none of you quite
see or sense. But somehow it feels
right. If you had known a thingabout a thing, you’d think it might.