Gerund of the “F” Word

Who’s the you who says you've had enough?

We're made exactly of the same blunt stuff

as infants, always, sleeping to rebuff the injuries

of our unknowing, dreaming to make urgent sense

of something – anything; then, dragging thick

and slow behind the body, comes the wordful mind:

conjuring up reasons for its causes and effects –

resorting to the shocks, release of laughter,

crying – or surrendering to sighing when it can't

remotely find its bearings, clocking impasses

with howls or swearing or a frozen shutting-down:

a disingenuous deployment of façade: since

nothing shuts or opens, ever, only flows,

and so it (add the gerund of the “f” word) goes.

A late baroque concerto grosso in F major does

the momentary trick: distracts you into thinking

corseted amusements might cut through

the thickness: Handel’s gentle fugue and melody,

so much less taxing than Herr Bach’s, allow

you to imagine stimulation doesn't have to

irritate. But ha! – tough (add the gerund of

the “f” word) luck. The sweetly intertwining strings

remind you of your yearning for a certain kind

of touch, and everything is once again too much.

.