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?
