When you’re sitting alone like a poor little elf
it seems everything falls off the shelf of yourself.
But falls isn’t the verb. What you’ll have viewed
by the end of it will have arrived in a curlicued
rush: disguised as elaborate ribbons and spatters
of colorful paint-drops, they really are matters
of dry circumspect little naggings of thought
that seek form in this way to allay any fraught
misconception you’ll sometimes have had
that there’s nothing of import inside you: a sad
probing finger that often will poke at the bruise
in your heart – that you’re feet without shoes,
incomplete, like the news you’ve been promised
but never receive. Mental weather’s admonished
you often before that you’ve got something going.
But what? All this folderol flowing and showing
itself all the time! To what end? You’ll sit alone
for a small while more. Wait for your iPhone
to ring-aling-ding. That would be reason for cheer.
But wait, there’s no wait. Everything’s already here.
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