Incredulously, life's stupid
little particulars
refuse to refine; legions of cells
don't distill themselves,
reduce to savory sauces, fine
wine, concentrated
juices. Instead,
they mindlessly multiply,
calcify and pile-
up incessantly.
But what's kind of nice is—
those hard white ugly stubborn knots,
where all events
get fused to your biased
remembrances of them,
eventually combine
to make
a spine—
a sturdy column
of rocks and mortar,
whose steady bands
of nervy pipes then start
to shunt fluids,
and, over time,
grow—winding thickly
through all that is you,
to support and to nourish
and eventually—
to animate,
reshaping into the finest
art—everything
which first shaped it.
