you must keep
rediscovering
that things
have a fearsome
and unnatural
reality.
That is—everything
(from that crack
in the cloudburst
where the sun sneaks
a kiss,
to the vodka fifth
which was left
on the bus bench
now half-filled
with piss)
is formidably,
redoubtably
just what it is.
And then—
you must squander
the rest
of the reverie
grandstanding
to convince
anyone
who will listen
that not only
were you surprised
by this,
you then found it
satisfactory.
