If we're being
honest, there are
honest, there are
constantly days—
grave days
with ashes
and rain;
engrossing ones, where
cravings wash
away in the flow;
even those
harebrained and
frivolous days—
where we have
absolutely
nothing to say. But
do we not always
later draw some
words out anyway?
It's as if
there's one magical,
summarizing utterance
we were custom-
made from birth
to make
and our lives
are just
the prompts
to which we
must respond
to iterate.
After all,
though it may be
formidably made,
a bell's not
a bell
unless you ring it—
and our fortunes
don't quite
sound like hell
until we can
hear ourselves
explain them away.
