Now that that's over,
you're talking
to yourself again—
hesitancy and persistence
begin to flicker
into flame,
the untenably succulent
writhing of
just-saying.
The half-smile
of short vowels
and long ones' circumferences
vanishing smooth
as a brass bell
struck in dead of winter
and reflecting
off of every surface, until
your whole
world becomes legible.
The handwriting
(or is this the voice)
of god is
streaming in from
anyplace.
Is this the revelation
you were waiting
to savor
Or just another tiny
psychotic break?
