You get persuasive to yourself.
Pick a peck of passions, choose one,
fuel its fumes then light a match
and lose yourself in its precision
of a conflagration: everything
is hot and clear: you are a seer –
in fact, so sure you know, you're
ready in the afterglow of all your
evidence to show it – say, today,
when, if you'd had your way
in conversation, you'd have
undermined and underlined: put forth
a personal cosmology made up
in equal parts of an ecstatic stun –
and something un: a
terror, exaltation –
so intolerably harrowing that every
living thing must blast itself
to particles in face of it; a taste of it
could make God disbelieve in God.
The natural condition of the Universe
is orgasm, is what you would have
said, if in this conversation, you had
been the one who'd led. Maybe just
as well you weren't. The one to whom
you really hoped to tell this to
just left the room without a glance
at you – and stopped the
current.
.
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