Thursday, June 23, 2022


Don't you almost
kind of hate

how, even the toughest,
hardest days 

still have these 
strange sort of
soft spots in them

where something 
like Imagination 

may gently
but persistently press
against their carapaces, 

creating those curious
and supple indentations 

where voluptuous air 
and limber arcs 
of light 

might swirl 
and flood 
into those spaces—

where attention,
eventually, might 
come to have no use 

for the strange 
local dialect 
of circuitous thought—

and where not 
to occasionally 
spontaneously laugh 

at the loss 
and hardship 
from which they were built 

is to give thanks 
and praise 
to the devil?