Monday, February 29, 2016

BUSY BODY

So
very
disorienting, at first

to traipse-
out anonymous in the city's
oppressive din—

but gradually,
it gets easier
to perceive there—and even

to make a
little spare

sense of
this bizarre tingling
thing, this

slithering
feeling you get,

of—
hearing so
much! and yet, nobody

talking. Of—
deep and ancient
currents, of the arcane

filaments
of a somehow
sentient Monday

morning,
which just
sort of

brainlessly but
reverently stretch,

now threading
out and among
and between the bald

trees from
street to neighborhood
street—flexing to contain (and this

is the really
sticky part): not just you

and your story,
but the
whole situation—

in an invisible
and an in-
divisible slush

that's getting slowly meshed
and strained togther
in the same coagulating net.

And then—after that,
coalesces the milky
thought

that sometimes—loud silences
such as these

are described
as being "profound."

But a lot more
often than that, they're
mostly only sturdy,

that is—thick
with the
tart cool

of their own
simple dumbness.

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