DERRING-DO

If you're 

reading this, 

you're falling 

swiftly 

through midair;

each word is

a cloud 

which first sounds 

like a mattress

til you blow 

right through it 

without slowing down.

But the good 

news is

there's a turn

at the end 

which is rushing up

to center itself

under your fall—

not with 

the pillow

of relevant info, 

but the small 

silk-soft 

pleasure 

of knowing 

in an instant 

that a poem

can support you

after all. 

SIMULATION THEORY DEBUNKED

The thing 

about our blandness 

is: it's bafflingly 

excessive. 

Like fictive hoards 

and digital legions 

of viruses, ghosts, 

angels, demons,

we admit 

to the possession 

of indistinct features—

but still

ten billion of us 

feel so mournful 

and desperate 

at this realization 

that in no sense 

could we ever be 

meaningfully convinced 

that we're 

figments—

or ciphers 

whose curves dance 

on pages—or bits 

of some childish-

ly alien intellect

which transmit 

their zettabytes 

of light-

hot confusion, but 

don't really exist.

TESTIMONY

As if turning on 

and off 

and on again 

was a baptism 

or holy communion, 

I saw

the city lights hesitate, 

hold back, 

deliberate 

and melt 

into the twilight, 

lending gravity 

to all space, 

frivolity 

to time. 

*

Alas, no description

is so well-formed

that it doesn't come 

with tight

little sparks 

between words—

electron gaps 

that cannot be constricted

but which cause one 

to wonder,

as one's default image 

of sky is recovered 

what on Earth 

happened there? 

And by what light 

was it depicted? 

THE COMEDOWN

For just a few 

seconds on a 

long enough drive, 

the sky is 

purple blue—

the clouds, 

a still plateau 

of dark but 

luminous folds—

not unlike 

the view

of a rose 

from the inside 

a day or two past 

the thrill

of full bloom.

LET'S PRETEND

When you were young, 

did you ever 

make-believe 

you were a loving mother? 

Was a wonderful 

mother ever 

not the perfect cover

for the God 

whom you adored 

but whose name 

must not be mentioned?

Back then, 

did you wonder 

how a few scraps 

of bread 

and a muttered amen 

could stand in 

for your redemption? 

What about now? 

Is a tender parent still 

a punitive savior?

How does one thing 

come to mean

another? 

TAMING THE TONGUE

Do you say 

you prefer 

music 

without words—

placid ponds

without their ripples—

innocent 

and easy 

to guileless 

and simple? 

What if

there is no pond 

on this Earth

which is deep enough

to conceal 

from our trawls 

the worst 

synonym 

for profundity? 

In that case 

(or in any), 

how do you explain 

your refusal 

to engage 

with the roiling pot 

of your least

attentive thoughts 

to your most 

demanding company? 

COMPLICATIONS

How is it 

that one sentence 

can both begin 

and end 

in the present?

Equivocally 

speaking, the past 

has been evacuated; 

the future will 

allude us.

There is, in effect, 

nowhere left 

on the page

to aim 

and vent 

our indefinite, 

limitless rage. 

*

We've all heard 

of suffering for fashion, 

but what happens 

when you become 

too attached 

to an impression—

a light mirage 

which is high-functioning,

a mascot 

of the marketing genius 

pulling out all the stops? 

Accommodating 

or not, 

every translucent bubble 

sooner or later 

pops.