Having had enough of the demeaning weight
of lack, the stuff in you now regularly lumbers
back and up, struts out, abruptly grabs you,
drags you through another night’s unfathomably
pretty filigree of mystic lightning-vivid darkness.
What you’re made to see and feel and do up-end
you into unimaginable heights. On pain of being
blocked from ever coming back you’re told –
by whom? a genderlessly gentle voice inside,
residing where there hadn’t once been room in you –
you cannot praise, describe, in any way convey
to anyone the nature of the sights, their shocks,
their undermining gorgeousness, their weird allure.
It’s private and it’s yours. No one else can know.
No one else could know. Your essence is a solo.