of saying "rhyme
or reason,"
as if
those were the
only two options,
when in truth,
most feelings don't push
either of those buttons.
Most of the time,
our deepest
thoughts are not catchy;
they neither instruct
nor arrange themselves
like seasons.
We simply hear
a mad blitz of phrases
or helplessly watch
as each image
swims away—
another iridescent fish
gliding deep
through our mind's
silent trenches,
out of reach—
barely even
contemplating
that a third
and more gripping kind
of mattering is happening—
that perhaps
feeling, at its purest,
neither needs
to entertain
nor teach.
