Some Sunday Mornings

Some Sunday mornings find you waking

undermined – as if Existence were a thief, taking

from you every last belief. Suddenly you know:

all that you’d relied on for relief just isn’t so.

Surely this impurity would pass,

reflexively, like gas,

or vertigo.

But no.

The best that you can make of anything

can’t bring

more than the supposition

that another wave of superstition

would wash over you just like the last one did: repair

another of your raveled sleeves of care

and once again deliver you into an indefatigably new

persuasive view of The Self-Evidently True –

a swift eleventh hour save

from this abyss, this gaping grave

of a calamity, this precipice –

into another reassuring prejudice –

to tell you all is well

again.

and you are not in hell

again.

.