There—in the raw and undesignated
newness of morning,
just before—the ink dries
on the signatures of things
and the sting
of your self
unleashes—
and thumbs its tremendous weight
evenly and hard
into the pulpy grey
matter of your
as-yet unproselytized mind—
when the light (even the light currently
motivating your eyes)
still feels—far off
and like it came from outside;
it is there—you must try.
And try hard. As hard
as you can—not to think
but rather
to wonder;
How? Just how many times?
in this moment—in this very
room? in this very
same space—prior to now?
have you felt
your soul
quake like this? having leapt
up! in a split second;
only to feel chaffed
and confounded
and constrained—by the weight
of those names
always coming so rapidly
and heavily into formation?
And then—in that same space
of time—you must try
to concentrate even harder.
To imagine
even faster—the impossible idea
of tomorrow! Of
the next day. Of a very
next morning. Another one.
A different
one! And yet—somehow, just
the same one.
And then?—And what then?
What in hell
will you do then?
And even
more importantly—
what will you do now?
