Tuesday, October 18, 2022


Of course, 
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—

into the highest 
kind of art 

all of the shit which 
fashioned it first.