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
going.
