Sometimes you wake up
at some nameless dark space
of time, on some planet,
with a veiled tingling passion—
and, for at least a cavernous
eon or two, there is absolutely
nothing to reconcile.
You think—here lies a slab, a log
floating supine; it's blank,
and it's bliss—there's no difference
between cool sweet streams
of and frothing mad rapids.
Until that first electric flash
and its thundercrack claps
hard, with a shuddering
vengeance—down at
your pure inanimate block
of sensation; rattles it, roils and
splits it back into a million
fragments again, each clamoring
and fighting it out for a scrap of shelter
with all the others. Until at last—
after several more agonizing mellenia
have passed—it sends
you spilling, now instantaneously
out of bed, freezing, running, mad
to your bathroom upstairs,
just in time—to empty your bladder.
