You tell me I don’t ever finish a tale.
That I go and I stop and am slow
as a snail. Some people must flail
to prevail – others achieve the ephemeral it
by espying a calm place to sit – and indeed
then proceed there serenely to sit.
You resort to a snit. You ask
aren’t there infinite ways in the Cosmos to fit?
But fit into what? What are we fitting by sitting
or throwing a fit? Why do we yearn for an it?
What is there out there or in here to fit? Words
are the girders, drills, rivets and bits that beatify,
gratify, ratify leptons into a wine spritzer which
fritzes in Waterford glasses that clink
from the rims of which we then suppose
we can drink, so we drink. When do we get
to the brink? We now know the answer to that,
we think. Brink is a word. Words are a brink. Edges
and contrasts and shadows and battles skedaddle
into a great sink with a drain that attains an abyss
wherein that becomes this, wherein fitting is it,
we can sit in a snit, we can flail
and prevail and at last
I can finish a tale.
Existence offends propriety.