Sunday, February 19, 2017

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
and you are not in hell

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