worth their salt
would ever tell
the truth—
that everyday's
epiphanies
are little more than
consolations,
or that passion
and fervor
are handy tricks
of rhetoric
but are hardly
prerequisites
and are no one's
responsibility.
They withhold
such thoughts not
because they know
that they ought
to come across,
above all, as both
conceptual
and real—but
because
they've been told
by low murmurs of,
prosaic wind
that just being there
to misapprehend those
is a feeling
so much bigger
than any thin
description of
experience will
ever feel.
