Friday, February 23, 2018


What if
this whole body of
mine is

just the hands—which are cupped
for dear life
around some matchstick;

protectors of some flagrant—yet
winnowing technology,
humble means

to the end
of that old outrage—thought,
irresistible, beguiling, the source impossible to detect.

Glamorous, that impossible glimmer,
but so-what. It's not
heroic. It's never enough

to create something
from nothing; the real magic
trick—is finding

some tolerably hideous way
of keeping the thing