and years of being
steeped
in the stuff,
incompleteness
has begun
to feel like
an addiction.
How could you even begin
to revise
these pitifully brief
and rough
outlines
of feelings?
Where is that hand
which
your hand
was designed
(or at least
had been counting on
the vaguest
plans) to touch?
Admit it: you're
entranced
by the voice you've
been using
to posit all these questions—
stoned
on surprise, strung-out
on recognition—yet,
you're helpless to resolve
to dispense
with these fictions, since
you're trembling
even now, at the threat
of a decision.
