all of life's little
hideous particulars
stubbornly refuse
to refine—
just like legions of cells
in the womb
don't distill themselves;
instead they
break loose, run amok,
and divide.
But what's still kind
of nice is: those hard,
stubborn clots
(in which everything
that happens to you
soon becomes fused
to your biased
and fearful and
vague recollections)
eventually combine
into something like a spine—
which then winds
its way thickly through
all that is you
to support,
and to nourish,
and, ultimately,
to design—
refashioning
into the highest
kind of art
all of the shit which
fashioned it first.
