Thursday, December 28, 2017


One day she woke up, oddly comfortably,
in a state of being which precluded any spatial
reference to up or down, behind, ahead, around.
So boundless it felt glorious in a completely
unsurprising way. Seemed clear, if queer, to us
that this was how she planned to stay. But
on the subject of what seemed be her hapless
incapacity to feel or care about the pull of gravity,
or grasp the fundaments of left and right or east
and west, what does she say? When she attempts
(if she attempts) to stand at all, does she just teeter/
totter, sway and fall? She snidely answers that she
can’t recall. To comment on such tedious details!
She bewails mundanity: the insanity of its inanity.
Her eyes sail off directionless into her formless
cosmos. No one knows that she has mastered
almost all the arts and vagaries of locomotion utterly
unknown to planes and cars and boats. She floats.
If you float, you’re already where you’ll always be.
To which, while she’d affix the prefix “ho” to "hum,"
I would note grumblingly that it’s not rote to me.
I want the full regalia of the heart and soul and meat
and marginalia of the thing – bring me facts, the heat
and verse and chapter, speculations old and new
all through it so I can pursue it! That I can’t do it
gets my goat. Now football’s all she dotes on. (She
loves the Dawgs.) Her secret she won’t spill. Makes
me want to kill. Her supercilious gloat! I long to float.


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