Of the tens of murky self-
similar thousands,
there is only one
crystalline moment
immediately after
the poem is done
in which I don't feel exceptional
pressure to explain
anything to anyone;
not the intimate
nature of my relationship
to friction and its coefficients,
not the gory details
of my long-standing three way
with Gravity and the Normal Force,
not even the vague way in which
uselessness wells up and
clashes with hope
when I stop to acknowledge
the velocity at which
the surface of the earth has been rotating.
For one rock-solid second,
I feel obligated
never to explain
anything that's been going on with me
ever again.
And when this happens,
it's such a strange combination of
a relief
and a rush,
a hybridized feeling
so complete, yet unique—
almost to the point
of being unheard-of—that
just this once, I
had to tell someone.
