must bow
to the mystery:
that our life
was a gift
we could not have been granted
because we
were not standing there prior
to accept.
And yet,
somehow, we received it
without our ever touching—
like infrared heat
from distant forked lightning,
or the faint crackle of pirate
radio stations,
or a radical new theory's
full implications.
To think,
none of this
was even close
to predestined;
but now, how much is so
coolly presupposed?
But the real question is:
what'll we do with this gift
we were given—
this deep and soulful
undulating pattern
of presence and absence
which simulates
an existence—
now that it's taken a shape
we can recognize
and a name that we know
as our own?
