Thursday, October 20, 2016


It's surely not that we can't spot some reason
for a thing: most casts of mind exist to find
a rationale for their proclivities: enough at least

to scratch provisionally some small itch
of worrying about why one has done whatever
one has done: but with infinity inhabiting eternity,

all bets are off: the lie is put to causes and effects,
and one suspects one's energy is better angled
toward the votive than to sussing out a motive:

to laud, exalt, exult in the impossibility of being
clear on being here. And yet proscriptions make
me petulant: I sigh. I still intend to find out why.


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