Even if the connection
is never completed
there in the right-sized room
of your head,
there may still be moments
when mind and matter
issue a ceasefire and
speak to each other.
There, in that most exquisite
of glooms, all the grubby shards
of you shimmer
with a singular rawness which
knits them together
as if undefined
by relationships or time,
and are weightless,
yet so terribly durable
you find yourself losing all freedom
to refuse.
And the high-speed net effect
of a truth so dazzling
is a lessening so deft
that you soon start to long for
the luscious redemptive
dark of your erstwhile confusion.
